


Teacher's Pet

by JCRGirl



Series: Teacher's Pet [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:38:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 87,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCRGirl/pseuds/JCRGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is kidnapped and the hunting community, headed by Dean and John, band together to find him. Four days after he's taken, Sam stumbles out of the woods beaten, bruised and broken and reminds Dean and John that not all evil is supernatural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

  
Dean lifted the beer bottle to his lips, condensation slicking the glass and cooling his warm palm. Running his tongue over his bottom lip to catch a stray drop of the bitter liquid, he surveyed the bar. Intimate couples and groups of friends circled the small tables scattered throughout the place while the regular barflies lined the highly polished bar alternately drowning their troubles and flagging down the bartender for refills. There was a 50s style jukebox in the corner filling the air with the eclectic choices of the patrons – one minute country, the next top 40 – and lighting the far corner with the rainbow glow of the multi-hued front. The pool tables were tucked in a back alcove and surrounded by ‘blue collar buddies’ and ‘good time Charlies’, all loose from the liquor in their systems with wallets full from the cashing of their Friday paychecks. All sheep ripe for the fleecing. 

Leaning back against the wall, Dean’s eyes catalogued them, assessing each with a cursory glance in search of his next contestant, before landing on a figure secluded in a dark corner behind the felt top tables.  The person’s lanky frame was hunched over the high table, long legs bent at a casual angle and tattered sneakers perched on the bottom rung of the stool. Through the dimly lit, smoke filled room, Dean could make out books and papers covering the available space as nimble fingers traced the printed words of the former and copied important information to the latter. A long index finger diverted from its track across the glossy page and brought Dean’s attention up as a pink tongue peeked out to wet the pad for the page turn.

_Damn, only Sammy could make studying seem sexy._

Feeling the weight of Dean’s gaze, Sam raised his head and smiled slightly. Dean suppressed a spike of arousal at the sight of Sam’s swollen lips, knowing he was the reason for the puffiness. 

_Fingernails sank into tender flesh seeking purchase and left a dotted trail of blood in their wake as sweat covered skin caused them to lose and gain ground. Dean hissed and arched his back, head lowering to capture sinful lips in a bruising kiss._

Dean took another swallow of his beer and sat it on the table next to him, pulling himself from his thoughts at the sound of resin balls striking one another indicated his opponent had finally taken his shot. He smiled at the mumbled curse that announced whatever maneuver the guy had intended didn’t live up to his expectations and pushed off of the wall.  Dean turned to study the new lay of the table and size up his next shot when a warm hand slithered around his waist, the other coming up to rest against his chest. They were small and gentle and Dean knew it belonged to the bottle blonde he’d been trading a flirting banter with all night.

“Good luck, darling,” she purred in his ear before pressing a sloppy kiss to his neck.

“Luck ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” Dean smirked, squeezing her waist before neatly sidestepping the girl to chalk his cue. Taking one last look at the ball placement, Dean flitted his eyes over to the corner, locking on hazel in a look that clearly communicated _watch this_!

Lining up his shot, Dean quickly sank the 6 with the two remaining solids following in short order. Rounding the table, he grinned smugly, “Eight in the corner.” He pointed at the opposite corner with his pool stick before sliding it smoothly through his bridged fingers to send the white cue ball gently into the black 8. Without waiting to watch the ball drop into the indicated pocket, Dean turned to beam at Sam. His smile fell and he distantly heard the soft clunk of the 8 landing against his opponent’s purple striped number 14 already nestled in the netted pouch. Sam’s table still looked as it did before, books and a smattering of papers spread over the top, but Sam wasn’t in sight.

Passing by people trading money on the bets that had been placed for and against him, Dean ignored the jeers from those now a few bucks lighter and vaguely acknowledged the cheers from those a few bucks richer. He focused on the vacant table, mind rationalizing that Sam could have merely gotten up to use the restroom, but gut insisting that something wasn’t right. He disentangled himself from his female admirer, pushing her to the side when she refused to let go. He could hear the timber of her sickly sweet voice, but the words of congratulation were lost as his stomach sank lower the closer he got to where his brother had been sitting. 

Still a few steps away he could see the creased page of the book Sam had been reading and the wrinkled page of notes Sam had been writing. If it had been anyone but Sam studying there, Dean wouldn’t have worried. But it was Sam. Sam who reveled in neatness and order. Sam who rewrote an entire essay once because the corner of the page had gotten crumpled in his binder. Sam who insisted that the bed be made every day to an almost military standard. Sam would never allow anything to be less than perfect…not willingly anyway.

Dean placed a hand on the thick textbook, Physics by the look of it, and slid it around to face him. There covering up the definition of acceleration and the formula for force were smears and thick droplets of bright red blood. Dean swallowed down bile as a small, childish voice sing-songed from the past.

_Hey, Dean! What’s black and white and red all over?_

_I don’t know Sammy. What’s black and white and red all over?_

_A penguin with a sunburn!_

At 6, it was Sam’s favorite joke and Dean laughed every time. Dean must have heard it a hundred times as  Sam told it anyone who’d listen. Now, a new answer sat in front of Dean and mocked him. What’s black and white and red all over? Sam’s homework.

Shifting around the space to where Sam was sitting, Dean stumbled over something. Staring up at him like a harbinger of doom, a well-worn brown Puma laid on its side, laces askew. Recognizing them immediately as the pair he’d teased Sam mercilessly about – they were a little douchy if you asked him which Sam reminded him he didn’t - after he’d picked them up during their last Goodwill trip. 

Dean hurried to the bathroom, unsure whether it was to throw up the beer and pizza sitting in his stomach or to check for Sam as either was a distinct possibility. Finding it empty and his stomach only nauseous, he returned to Sam’s table to search for a note – D _enial much? Like Sam was going to go for a walk with only one shoe on_. Shifting the items Sam had been working on, but not finding any clues Dean stopped the waitress as she walked by with a tray laden with fresh beers and shots.

“Did you see the guy that was sitting here?” Getting a blank stare in return, he elaborated, “You know, the skinny guy with the floppy hair and puppy eyes?”  

The waitress shook her head, looking at Dean like he was a little disturbed. God, their hope at the beginning of the night had been that Sam’s obvious underage presence would go unnoticed. Good job on that. Watching her walk away, Dean ran desperate eyes over the crowd. No one seemed to be paying any attention to his mini-freak out, the friendly girl from earlier turning her charms on the next hotshot at the pool table and the gamblers setting stakes on the new game. Looking down, Dean noticed Sam’s ever-present backpack propped next to the back entrance they’d used earlier to sneak him in. He reached over, lifting the bag by the strap, and felt a rush of cool air wash over the back of his hand. Dropping the bag, he pushed the metal door and felt the hinge swing open easily with the gentle force.

Peering into the dark alley, the stench of garbage and urine filling his nose, a glint of light caught his attention. The lone street light at the front of the building glinted off something metallic lying on the damp ground. Walking over Dean picked up the small, reflective item, heart caught in a tug-o-war between leaping into his throat and sinking into his stomach, as he ran a thumb over the horned figure and smeared a drop of blood over the snarling face. His amulet. 

_Dean lined up his first shot of the evening and felt the relief of a weight from around his neck. The cord his amulet hung from, weathered thin from years of constant wear, had broken and as he stood the charm slid down his chest to rest against his stomach where tucked shirt met waistband. It wasn’t the first time, this string was the third since he’d received the necklace over eight years ago, but Dean hadn’t expected it to snap just yet and didn’t have a new cord ready. Untucking his shirt to free the amulet, he smirked at the blonde girl when she ran appreciative fingers over the revealed strip of skin below his navel. Resettling the hem of his shirt, he excused himself and walked over to Sam who’d watched the exchange with a thunderous look._

_“Hey, Sammy, can you hold onto this for me? The cord broke again and the horns will poke me when I shoot if I put it in my pocket.” Dean dangled the amulet from the cracked cord, waiting for Sam to open his hand._

_“Why don’t you get your new friend to do it?” Sam scowled, eyes narrowed in the direction of the girl blatantly staring at Dean’s ass._

_“Sam,” Dean sighed in annoyance. “We talked about this at the house. Remember? Now, hold this, will you?” He dropped the metal charm on Sam’s open book._

_“Fine, Dean. Whatever you say. You better get back. You’re date looks lonely.” Sam lifted up from the stool and shoved the amulet into the front pocket of his jeans._

_Dean huffed an angry breath and turned to head back to the pool table. He didn’t understand why Sam had to be such a princess about this. Dean was a flirt; he liked to flirt. He liked the thrill of the chase, the seduction, and he was good at it. Even other people realized it. Dave, his boss at the garage, had been reluctant to hire him with his limited experience, but decided to give him a chance working on tune-ups and oil changes. When Dave saw how the female (and some male) customers responded to him, okaying any service recommendation that passed those sinful lips, Dean was promoted to full mechanic and encouraged to use his natural talents to their fullest. Sam needed to suck it up and face facts. Dean was Dean and nothing would ever change that. And besides, it was harmless. Dean loved Sam and although he enjoyed and reciprocated the attention of others, he always went home with or to Sam._

_Picking up his cue, Dean smiled at the blonde girl as she sidled up next to him again. Yeah, Sam just needed to get over it. A little flirting never hurt anyone._

Palming the night-cooled metal, Dean’s throat won the tugging match as he vomited the contents of his stomach on the dirty asphalt. 

Sam was gone.

 

Consciousness returned to Sam in starts and stops. The first thing he noticed was the loud rumble of an engine and the gentle sway of his body as the road shifted him back and forth. Even though he was lying down, he could feel the press of a seatbelt around his waist keeping him from falling on the floor. It was something that Dad had done for him when he was little after he’d been tossed to the floorboards one too many times before Dean got strong enough to hold him better.

_Had they been on a hunt? Did he get choked out again?!_

Encouraging his eyelids to open, Sam tried to organize his scattered thoughts to determine his injuries since he knew Dean’s first question would be _where does it hurt?_ His body felt weak, but nothing screamed in pain. Finally able to pry open his heavy lids, Sam squeezed them shut again against the glare of a street lamp as they passed under it. The bright light made his eyes ache and a pounding begin inside the confines of his skull. Nausea rolled over him and he tried to call out Dean’s name certain his brother would never forgive him if he threw up in the backseat of the Impala. 

_A concussion? Did he hit his head? What were they hunting again?_ He couldn’t remember being thrown into a wall or tossed into a gravestone, but his mind felt disconnected and fuzzy, thoughts proving hard to put into any kind of order. 

The lingering scent of cigarette smoke wafted up to him and caused his stomach to churn threateningly. _Cigarette smoke? The bar!_ That’s right. He and Dean had gone to a bar, his brother needing a little relief after being cooped up in their apartment for the last two weeks at John’s order. 

Now at least having a starting point, Sam concentrated on piecing together how he’d ended up sick in the backseat of the car. He remembered studying for his Physics exam. Formulas and variables skimming the surface of his mind, but not penetrating since his attention was more concerned with the blonde slut hanging off his brother. A bottle of beer was on the table, gradually warming to the point of undrinkability, but it was just a prop. Dean had brought it over, drinking half the contents before setting it down, letting its presence and volume ward off passing waitress who were on the lookout for customers with empty bottles in need of another. 

Had he drunk the warm beer and passed out? Granted he wasn’t much of a drinker, but even he couldn’t be so much of a lightweight that half a beer did him in. Right?

Pressing his face into the cool leather beneath his head and panting through his mouth to control his roiling stomach, Sam concentrated on the comforting smell of his rolling home. Except the smell was off. Instead of the familiar scent of gunpowder, oil and sweat, Sam’s senses were blindsided by a cloying fragrance – a mixture of gas station freshener, cologne and something oddly medicinal. 

Shifting onto his back, Sam groaned as the change in position amped the snare drum beat in his head to a bass and his stomach threatened to rebel. Peeling his gummy eyelashes apart, Sam meekly called out for Dean again and let his eyes roam over his surroundings. As his sight focused it became obvious that he wasn’t in the Impala. 

He was lying on the second row seat of a SUV and when he tried to rub the sleep from his eye, he realized that his hands were secured together, palm to palm, in front of his body. Trying to move his legs, he noticed his ankles were secured together as well. Just as panic started to set in, the car slowed and the terrain turned bumpy from what Sam assumed was the car stopping on the shoulder.

Full moon light shone in through the windshield creating a halo like glow around the head of the driver and Sam could see dark eyes flick to the rear view mirror and stare into his. A familiar voice drifted through the space between the front seat captain’s chairs as the driver turned toward him, lingering disorientation and fear preventing him from placing the owner.

“You awake back there, Samuel?”

Sam’s heart and lungs sped up. Any hope that Sam harbored that this was Dean, flew out the window when he was addressed by his full name. Their Dad would sometimes call him by Samuel when he was in serious trouble, much like some children were referred to by first and middle names, but Dean never called him Samuel. Normally it was the much abused Sammy or some variation of it. It was Sam when he was angry, sharp and clipped, or when he was aroused, breathy and husked, but never Samuel.

“Now, now baby. You need to calm down. Everything’s fine. I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to be. I got you away from him. You don’t have to worry about Dean anymore. I’m going to take care of you,” the voice cooed, a large hand reaching between the seats to run soothingly over Sam’s thigh.

Sam recoiled from the touch, trying to press himself further against the seat back and away from the unwanted caress. The man’s words – _where had he heard that voice before?_ – ran through his still confused mind.  **_I got you away from him. You don’t have to worry about Dean anymore._**

“Wut?” His tongue felt swollen and uncooperative, his words slurring as his mouth refused to keep up with his thoughts. “Wut goin’ on? Where D’n?”

“Relax, Samuel. You’re free of him. He can’t hurt you anymore. Now, I’m going to give you something to help you sleep for a while. When you wake up again, you’ll feel better.” The man turned back around and rummaged through something in the passenger seat. 

Realization dawned slowly on Sam as the voice washed over him again. Just as the last pieces to the puzzle of his kidnapper’s identity started to fall into place, the man turned with a syringe in hand. Wriggling to get away from the needle, shining sinisterly in the phosphorous glow of the street lamp, Sam finally caught a glimpse of the man’s face as headlights from a passing car lit up the man’s features.

 _Oh God!_ Struggling harder, refusing to let his shock paralyze him, Sam felt a pinch as the needle pierced the skin of his arm followed by a warm haze of drugs flooding his system. His limbs grew heavier and his eyelids drooped, drifted off toward an artificially induced sleep. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

As Sam lost consciousness, all he could think was this was his own fault.

2 Months Ago…

Sam hiked the strap of his backpack higher from where it had slid down over the round of his shoulder. Kids jostled him as they rushed through the glass paned double doors leading into the brick building in front of him. A marble slab set over the entry identified it as Central High and Sam smirked at the banality of the name. Either the founders of the school had been extremely unimaginative or else no one of note had ever come from Bedford, Indiana. _Central High_. It sounded like the generic names given to schools in movies and televisions shows to keep viewers from associating the building with real places.

He was starting the school year off with a promise from his Dad that they would stay at least until Winter Break. Sam was skeptical - a long history of broken promises left in the wake of the Impala’s taillights would do that to a person -but he’d promised Dean to try to be optimistic, and Sam kept his promises.  

Moving into the stream of teenagers still flowing into the building, Sam pulled his backpack around to fish his schedule out of the front zippered pocket. Checking the room number and teacher name, he stuffed the sheet back into his bag and headed for the stairs that led to the second floor and his first class of the day. 

When John took Sam to register for the upcoming school year they’d been surprised to learn that the school required new students to take an aptitude test for grade placement. The counselor, Mrs. Wise, had droned on about how students at different schools were held to varying standards and the administration had discovered over the years that some incoming students were above the level of instruction their peers were receiving while others were below. Sam couldn’t help but notice that she eyed him carefully as she said _below_ which led him to believe that the placement exam had less to do with school policy and more to do with the number of transcripts she’d been handed.

Sam took the required test feeling confident that he would be equivalent to the junior level of education at Central High, but a niggling thread of doubt had him worried. It was hard enough to start a new year in a new school, but to be told he had to repeat the 10th grade would be unbearable. The two days after the test were agonizing as he waited for results that could doom his career at this school before it even began, every ringing of the phone causing his heart to race. All in all he needn’t have been concerned. Mrs. Wise ended his suffering when she called to say that not only did Sam meet their expectations for returning juniors, he’d scored high enough to qualify for senior level courses. 

That was how he’d found himself in Mr. Reece’s Advanced Calculus class. Of all his teachers, Mr. Reece was Sam’s favorite. He’d just started teaching at Central High, having transferred from Gallatin, Tennessee at the end of the previous year, so he understood being the new person in a small town where people had known each other since birth. He was laid back and easy going, praising when you succeeded and encouraging when you struggled, and ,unlike some of the other teachers, he was less concerned about grades and more with his pupils understanding the subject matter. 

He also seemed to genuinely care about his students. When he saw Sam at lunch or in the library, he always took the time to come over and see how Sam was faring with the harder coursework or to ask if the other students were treating him fairly. Sometimes he’d sit and talk, never treating Sam like a stupid teenager but interacting with him as an adult. He even convinced Sam to join The Mathletes, a group of students who competed in local and regional math competitions. Mr. Reece was the Staff Advisor for.

Sam should have seen it. He’d been trained to notice things like this and his instincts had never failed him before, but in his defense it began so innocently.  The occasional hand brushing his arm or rubbing his shoulder and the slight violation of personal space were too easy to dismiss as Hunter paranoia and Mr. Reece being an overly tactile person. Besides Mr. Reece was a good looking guy, tall with dark hair and intelligent steel blue eyes, so it wasn’t like he couldn’t get a date with someone his own age. Hell, Sam and Dean had seen him at the movies with Ms. Goss, the hot Chemistry teacher who starred in over half of the male student body’s jerk-off fantasies. It was insane to think that Mr. Reece had an interest in him beyond that of a teacher for his pupil. 

Perception is a funny thing though. Just as one man’s junk is another man’s treasure, one man’s insanity is another man’s reality. 

Sam could never be sure when exactly he noticed the change, but he thought it started right after the autumn leaves on the Announcement Board were replaced by grinning pumpkins. It was around that time that Mr. Reece’s subtle touches turned more aggressive. He insisted on walking Sam out after Mathletics practice, a guiding hand placed uncomfortably and possessively low on Sam’s back. He’d come up behind him as he studied in the library, boxing him in with hands on the table and muscled arms bracketing his body, and lean over him to see what subject Sam was working on. Every day he sought Sam out during lunch, his brown paper bag usually containing one of Sam’s favorite foods, and sat so close their thighs were pressed flush together. Sam had even caught him sitting in the bleachers during his Gym class watching as he played basketball with his classmates. What appeared to Sam in the beginning as a teacher reaching out to the shy, nearly friendless new student suddenly seemed like the behavior of a stalker. 

Sam tried to ignore the small voice in the back of his head that screamed something wasn’t right as the overactive imaginings of someone raised to spot evil lurking in every corner. Mr. Reece was just a man. Sam had checked. He might not want to believe that his teacher was evil, but he wasn’t stupid enough to leave it unverified. In the end it was easy, a silver pen provided when Mr. Reece found himself in need, an ‘accidental’ splash of holy water from his thermos at lunch, the whispered name of God while leaving class. Every test that Sam could come up with gave the same negative result. It was when he thought Ms. Goss was giving him strange looks that he finally accepted the truth.  He was just paranoid. 

Then the rumors started. John had taught his children early that the sound of a whisper could travel farther than spoken words, but apparently no one had ever mentioned that to the senior girls at Central High. He heard their sneered murmurs and incredulous hisses as he walked through the hallways and passed them on the way to his seat. Words like ‘slut’ and ‘boy toy’ and ‘teacher’s pet’ drifted past him on lotion scented air. 

It culminated one day when he overheard Lauren, head of the varsity cheerleading squad, talking to Stephanie, one of her fellow rah-rahs. The lunch bell had just rung and he’d gone to the basement to stow his books in his locker when the sound of his name had him stopping a few steps from the bottom.

“Sam’s not _that_ hot and somehow he’s snagged that gorgeous mechanic down at Dave’s and Mr. Reece.”

Sam’s smiled at Lauren’s mistaken impression that he and Dean were boyfriends.  He knew a lot of students were under this misconception, but he couldn’t bring himself to correct them. If he was being honest he really kind of liked it. His grin fell when she mentioned Mr. Reece. 

“He’s sleeping with Mr. Reece? Are you sure? Here you can have this new lipstick I bought. Judd didn’t like the color.” The rattle of a locker slamming shut echoed off the block walls.

“Really? It’s a good shade for you.” Sam heard books and papers being shifted and was prepared to leave if the gossip had been derailed for a cosmetics debate when Lauren continued. “A-ny-way, you can’t be that naive. They aren’t even trying to keep it quiet. They have lunch together every day and right out on the quad. Plus, have you seen the way Mr. Reece looks at him? You’d think that skinny nerd was a dessert buffet.”

“I wonder what he does that keeps two of the hottest guys in town coming back for more.”

“Probably sucks cock like a porn star. Maybe we can convince him to give you a few lessons. I bet Judd wouldn’t care what color lipstick you wear if it left a pretty ring around his dick.” The bang of another locker door shutting was followed by the squeak of sneakers on linoleum.

“You’re such a bitch. I’ll have you know my blow jobs…”

Sam never heard what Stephanie’s blow jobs were or weren’t. He quickly retreated up the stairs, stomach falling somewhere around his knees. If someone as vapid as Lauren had noticed, Sam couldn’t ignore it anymore. 

Sam adjusted his routine in an effort to avoid Mr. Reece whenever possible. He quit Mathletes, citing an increase in schoolwork as an excuse. He found new routes to get from class to class and stopped going to the library during his free period, opting instead to volunteer in the Guidance Office.  He chose his lunch spots at random – one day behind the drama building, the next in the football bleachers - but unerringly Mr. Reece found him.

 It was during one of these lunches – it had taken Mr. Reece almost ten minutes to discover Sam hidden on the west end stairs - that Mr. Reece first broached the subject of Dean. Sam wasn’t aware that Mr. Reece even knew who Dean was. Dean picked Sam up on the days he’d had Mathletes practice, an apology of sorts that Sam had to walk the two miles home on the other days, but Mr. Reece always seemed to disappear right as the long, black beauty pulled into the parking lot. It appeared that without ever having been formally introduced to Dean, Mr. Reece knew quite a bit about him.

“I saw you at the movies the other night,” Mr. Reece began, “Was that Dean you were with?”

Sam paused for a moment trying to remember if he’d ever talked about Dean to Mr. Reece. Before, they used to talk about all kinds of subjects during their lunches - literature, music, movies, hopes for the future - but Sam had always tried to steer conversations away from his personal life. If anyone got wind that their father was gone as much as he was, it could mean trouble for the whole family, and the nature of his relationship with Dean was too complicated. To avoid tangled webs, Sam decided a long time ago it was best to keep his mouth shut.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam took a bite of his peanut butter and banana sandwich and let his gaze travel over the students sitting in the quad enjoying the Indian summer day. He hoped that his reluctance to elaborate would be enough of a hint for Mr. Reece to drop the subject or even better to leave. 

“He’s older than you.”

It wasn’t a question so Sam didn’t feel the need to reply. 

“It looked like you two were fighting.”

Sam swallowed and frowned.  He didn’t remember fighting with Dean that night. “We argued over what movie to go to. He wanted to see The Blair Witch Project and I wanted to see The Sixth Sense.” It was nothing major - _The Blair Witch Project? Really, Dean? Oh, Come on, Sammy. It’ll be good for a laugh_. Sam’d seen three other couples doing the same thing. In fact one girl got so angry at her boyfriend that she stomped off.

“What did you end up seeing?” The older man’s voice remained conversational, but Sam could see a flash of irritability in his steel blue eyes. 

“The Blair Witch Project.”

“Do you always give in to what Dean wants?” The irritability was gone, replaced by a calculating look that reminded Sam of a wolf scenting its prey.  Mr. Reece nudged the bag of gummy bears he’d brought in his lunch today closer to Sam.

“No, of course not,” Sam defended, ignoring the subtle offer. Actually, it wasn’t so much that Sam gave in that night, he honestly didn’t care what movie they saw, but more that Dean offered up a trade that Sam couldn’t refuse. Who could blame him really, he’d never been rimmed before. Sam shivered at the memory, his dick twitching in interest, and turned defiant eyes on his teacher.

“I see. You know Sam, your relationship with Dean may not be in your best interest.”

“My relationship with Dean is just fine. Thank you for your concern.” Sam’s voice was cold as he started to gather his trash.

Mr. Reece wrapped strong fingers around Sam’s wrist. “I’ve seen him at the garage downtown,” he hissed, handsome face contorting into a snarl. “Charming every whore that walks through the door. The looks he gives them, their panties are wet before he finishes saying ‘hello.’ I’ll bet their legs open like they’re on greased hinges. He sees you the same way, you know. Just another tight ass.”

“Dean’s not like that.” Sam tried to pull his arm free, but Mr. Reece just tightened his grip. “Let me go!”

“I know he hurts you. I’ve seen the bruises,” Tugging Sam closer, he lifted the sleeve of Sam’s shirt to reveal a yellowing bruise leftover from a ghoul hunt the previous week. “You don’t have to be afraid, Sam. I can protect you from him. I can give you everything you ever wanted – a home, security, love. I can love you better than he ever could. All you have to do is let me.”

Yanking hard, Sam snatched his arm out of his teacher’s grip and quickly stood. “You don’t know the first thing about Dean or our relationship. He loves me and I love him. If anyone is going to protect me, it’ll be Dean.”

Getting to his feet, Mr. Reece regarded Sam with an almost pitying look, hand reaching out to him. “You poor boy. You really think he loves you.”

“Don’t touch me.” Stepping back, Sam raised his hands to ward off the older man. “Just stay the hell away from me,” Sam commanded, using his anger to add a menacing undercurrent to his words. 

Sam walked toward the Gym for his next class, keeping a wary watch on Mr. Reece from the corner of his eye. Adjusting the straps on his bag to shift the weight to a more comfortable position on his back, Sam wondered how he let things get so out of hand. When he stepped out of the locker room and onto the basketball court, Mr. Reece wasn’t in the bleachers. Shaking his head, he decided it didn’t matter. He’d handled it.

That was last week.

As Sam succumbed, the last thought that surfaced from beneath the drowsy blanket created by the drug was: _This is all my fault._

 

 

*****

 

 

Dean slid into the front seat of the Impala, dropping Sam’s backpack in his brother’s spot on the passenger side. It had been his idea to go to the bar tonight; Sam hadn’t even wanted to come. They’d argued earlier and after two weeks of nothing but work and home, Dean needed a night out. He should have paid more attention to his brother, kept a closer eye on him. As Dean started the Impala, the rumble doing nothing to calm his nerves, all he could think was this was all his fault.

 

 John had left two weeks earlier with his usual instructions – “Listen to Dean” and “Take care of Sammy” - but he’d also ordered them to lay low until he got back. The first week it hadn’t been a hardship. The sexual aspect of Dean and Sam’s relationship was still new (Dean had insisted on waiting to take that last step until Sam was sixteen) so the time alone had given them the opportunity to explore and learn about each other. They’d played and teased, experimented with different positions and acts, and tested the structural integrity of each and every flat surface in the apartment.  

 

The second week had been a little more trying though. The sex was still incredible. Dean discovered that Sam’s long legs were extremely flexible and that little brother had a bite kink. However, out of the bedroom (kitchen, bathroom, living room, Impala) Sam was surly and moody. He stopped talking about his day when before Dean couldn’t get him to shut up. He snapped at Dean over anything and they argued over nothing. His attitude created a layer of tension over the house that made Dean itchy for a beer in one hand and a pool cue in the other. He resisted the urge; his father’s orders clear in his mind. Until tonight. 

 

Dean stared across the table at Sam as he picked at his dinner. It was Sam’s favorite, macaroni and cheese with hot dogs, and Dean had made it in the hopes of brightening his brother’s mood. So far it didn’t seem to be working. Finally, deciding to stop pussy footing around, Dean dropped his fork with a clatter.

 

“Okay, spill. What’s crawled up your ass and died?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Not buying it, Sam. Try again.” Dean picked up his fork again.

 

“I stopped by the garage on my way home,” Sam muttered, pushing his macaroni and cheese around with his fork.

 

“Oh, really, when?” Dean popped a cut up hot dog in his mouth.

 

“After school. You were busy showing Mrs. Patterson something under the hood. Of course, I don’t know how you could see anything past her tits in your face.” Sam viciously stabbed a noodle and then a piece of hot dog, swirling them in a puddle of artificial cheese sauce in the bottom of his bowl.

 

“Sam,” Dean sighed. This was the second time this week they’d had this conversation. He didn’t know where this sudden insecurity and jealousy was coming from but it was getting old. “You know it’s my job to charm the customers. That’s what Dave pays me to do. His sales have tripled since he made me a mechanic.”

 

“Yeah, Dean, I know, but you don’t have to enjoy it so much.”

 

“I’m not having this conversation again, Sam.” Dean got up and tossed his unfinished dinner in the sink. He turned, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m just flirting. It’s not like I’m going to do anything about it. I’m with you. Only you. I’ve done everything I can to prove it to you. What else can I say or do to make you believe that?”

 

Sam jumped up from his seat and quickly crossed to Dean. “I believe you, Dean, I do. I’m sorry. I don’t know what the matter with me.” That wasn’t exactly true; he knew where this stemmed from. Sam looked down at his feet, ashamed that Mr. Reece’s words had rattled him. “I just see them and they want you so badly, they practically throw themselves at you. They’re older and beautiful and I’m not any of those things. Then you flirt back with them and I feel…” Sam cut off on a choked sob.

 

“Sammy,” Dean lifted Sam’s chin with a gentle finger and waited until wet hazel eyes met his, “Just because I flirt with a girl doesn’t mean that I want her. I want you. I have since I realized what that meant. I may _like_ to flirt, but I _love_ you. No matter what, I’m always going to end my night with you.” 

 

Sam nodded and tucked his head under Dean’s chin, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist. Dean pulled Sam close, pressing a soft kiss to his hair. 

 

“Hey,” Dean jostled Sam gently, “How about we get out of here tonight? Maybe hit that bar down the road?”

 

“I don’t know, Dean. I have some Physics homework I wanted to get done tonight so we could have the whole weekend together. Plus it’s not much fun for me to sit in the corner and watch everyone hang all over you and undress you with their eyes.” Sam nuzzled further into Dean’s neck, tongue coming out to lave the pulse point with kittenish licks.

 

Dean groaned and arched his neck to give Sam more room. “Sam,” he growled in warning, unwilling to rehash their previous conversation.

 

“Not jealous, just facts,” Sam raked his teeth down the corded muscles of Dean’s neck, biting harder when he reached where neck and shoulder met. 

 

“Come on, Sam. It’s been a rough week and I need to cut loose a little. I promise to make it worth your while.” Dean slid his hands lower to Sam’s ass, cupping the denim-covered mounds before squeezing slightly.

 

Sam paused, his mouth open against the sensitive skin under Dean’s jaw. Guilt washed through him. He knew he was the reason Dean’s week had been rough. He’d allowed his last encounter with Mr. Reece to taint their time together and Dean hadn’t deserved it. Moving his mouth over to Dean’s ear, he nibbled on the lobe. “Worth my while, huh? What did you have in mind?” He could always take his homework to the bar with him.

 

A lecherous smirk crossed Dean’s face and he pulled back to claim Sam’s lips. Stooping down, he slid his hands down the back of Sam’s thighs and lifted him up. Sam made a sound of surprise and circled his legs around his brother’s waist. Dean carried him to the couch and gently lowered him, fingers automatically moving to the button of Sam’s jeans. Yeah, this is what he needed to turn this week around - Sammy, some beer, a little hustling, and then Sammy again later. Yep, tonight he was going to have some fun.

 

Dean got to have his fun. He’d drank and flirted and hustled. But Sam was the one who paid the price. While Dean wasn’t watching what was most precious, something had come in and taken it away from him. If something happened to Sam, Dean would never forgive himself because this…this was all his fault.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean pulled into a parking space at the deserted park a few blocks down from their apartment. Sam loved it here during the day. He liked to sit in the sun with a book, watching the children play on the swing set and the people walking their dogs. On the days Dean got off early enough from the garage he would come and sit with him and take in the easy peace of other people’s lives.

The park was empty now, solemn in the dark and quiet as a graveyard. The swings moved listlessly in the gentle breeze, despondently swaying through their motions waiting for the return of young joy for motivation. Dean knew how they felt. A fox, carrying something small in its mouth, darted out from under the slide and dashed toward the bushes along the perimeter of the playground. A quick flash of fur and it was gone, secreting away its prize to a safe place where it could enjoy it leisurely.

Resting his head against the leather bound steering wheel, Dean listened to the soft ticks of the Impala’s engine cooling down. The watch on his arm counted the minutes, a loud metronomic rhythm in his ear, reminding him at 60 beats a minute that he’d failed to protect Sam. Tick, tick…Sam, Sam.  

When he realized that Sam was missing, Dean questioned everyone in the bar hoping someone had seen or heard something - going so far as to bully, badger and threaten those that weren’t as forthcoming as he liked. The answer was the same all around – no one remembered seeing the young kid hidden in the back or heard anything out of the ordinary. He searched the area where Sam was sitting and scoured the alley outside, finding nothing that would clue him in to what took his brother. Frustrated and out of ideas, Dean went to the car and started to drive.  He traveled up and down the sleepy streets, constantly looking for any place where something might be hiding Sam. Two hours later, he had nothing to show for his efforts except more miles on the odometer, less gas in the tank and sore fingers from picking the locks on every abandoned warehouse in town. 

Sitting back with a heavy sigh, Dean scrubbed a hand over his face to wipe away the weariness that was clinging to him like an oppressive blanket. He knew what he had to do.  Reaching over, he picked up his phone from the seat next to him. He’d called Sam’s cell ten times and each time he received his voicemail, Sam’s cheery voice instructing him to leave a message. Thumb hovering over the keypad, he hesitated before scrolling through his contacts to the number he dreaded dialing. It didn’t matter, Sam was gone and Dean needed help. Pressing SEND, he waited until the screen showed the call connecting then lifted the phone to his ear. White letters against a blue background: 

CALLING 

DAD  

“Dean?” John answered on the fourth ring, his voice gruff from lack of sleep, but devoid of the gravelly tone it took on when he was drinking.

“Dad,” Dean’s voice broke and he had to clear his throat before he could continue, “its Sam. He’s gone.”

Dean could hear the creak and pop of wood as his father shifted in his chair. “What do you mean ‘he’s gone’? Did he run away?” John’s voice thundered over the line, all traces of sleepiness gone. Dean could just make out the sounds of cloth rubbing against canvas, clothes being shoved in a duffel bag.

“No. I think something took him. We were at a bar…”

“What do you mean you were at a bar?” John interrupted, his voice modulated down to a controlled tone. Somehow Dean wished he was still yelling. Underneath it all was the shuffling of papers. “I thought my orders were clear. You weren’t to go anywhere, but school, the grocery store and work.” The metallic sound of a zipper sliding shut was followed quickly by another.

“Yes sir. We…I…uh,” Dean swallowed and took a breath, “we were blowing off some steam. He was there before I took my shot and when I finished he was gone. His stuff was still on the table and… Dad, there were drops of blood on his book and his shoe was on the floor under the table. It looks like he was dragged out the back door. My amulet broke and he was holding it for me. I found it in the back alley. I questioned everyone in the bar, but no one saw anything. I’ve been driving around the town, but there’s no trace of him.” Dean was babbling so fast, he’d begun to hyperventilate. 

“Dean, calm down,” John cut him off, surprised at the frantic edge to his oldest’s voice. Dean was the epitome of calm and collected, a trait he’d learned at his father’s knee and one that had earned him the respect of the hunting community. Right now, Dean was terrified and that more than anything spiked John’s worry. He waited for Dean’s gasping to stop before he continued, “I’m leaving now and should be there in five hours, six at the most. Go back to the apartment and see if you can pull up the Tribune on Sam’s computer. Look for anything strange in the area that might have taken him.”

“We check the papers every day. There hasn’t been anything out of the ordinary. Not since that ghoul, we took care of a few weeks back.” Dean switched the phone to his other hand and leaned forward to fumble under the seat. Fingers brushed coarse carpeting then moved over cardboard and cellophane. He wrapped his hand around the package and picked it up from the floor. Thumbing the lid open, Dean plucked a cigarette from the pack with trembling fingers.

“I know, Dean, but sometimes things look differently when you know there is a problem rather than trying to find one. Take another look and I’ll call when I’m close. Call me if you hear from your brother.” Dean heard a door slam right before the line went dead. 

Putting the spongy filter in his mouth, Dean lit the cigarette and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. Sam hated that he smoked, always harping on him about the dangers of lung cancer and emphysema. When they found Sam, he’d give it up for good because if they didn’t then it wouldn’t matter. He’d die of lead poisoning long before the smoking would kill him. 

 

 

John slung his bags on the passenger floorboard and slammed the door shut. He leaned his forearms against the window and let his head hang down between his shoulders. He took a few deep breaths and tried to force air past the fear clawing its way up his throat. Pushing away from the truck, John ran a hand through his hair before digging into his pocket to pull out his cell phone. Walking around the front of the truck to the driver’s side, he went to his contacts and dialed the first number. As the phone rang, John hefted himself into the truck and jammed the key in the ignition.

“Hello.”

“I need help. Something took Sam.”

With a twist of his wrist the truck roared to life and John headed west toward his boys.

 

 

 Sam woke slowly, the lingering pull of the drugs trying to keep ahold of him. Memories floated up past the fog of sedation and the headache pulsating in his skull. Being grabbed at the bar, waking in the car, Mr. Reece drugging him. Fuck! _Mr. Reece_. 

The car braked sharply and the momentum forced Sam forward onto his stomach, the belt around his waist preventing him from rolling to the floor. Sam lay still, praying away the nausea the sudden change in position had caused. A seat buckle cut sharply into his hip bone and he shifted trying to move away from it, except no matter how he moved, the buckle still pressed painfully into the jut of bone. 

Turning off his stomach so that he rested on his side, Sam realized that the bruising object wasn’t part of the seat but something in his front pocket. His cell phone! Sam’s eyes flew open and he sent a silent thanks to whatever may be listening that Reece hadn’t thought to go through his pockets. 

Moving his hands closer to his face, Sam examined his bindings in the full moon light that bathed the interior of the car in soft, diffuse glow. Gray duct tape was wrapped around his wrists, tight enough to restrict Sam’s movements while loose enough to ensure adequate circulation to his fingers. Reece apparently wanted to secure Sam without causing any real damage. Turning his hands, he could see the end of the tape had been threaded between his wrists then tucked under itself, sticky side to sticky side. He tugged the portion between his arms with his teeth, but it refused to budge. Changing tactics, Sam bit at the edge of the tape to try and chew through the adhesive vinyl. He gritted his teeth in frustration, the tape had been wound around too many times and his teeth couldn’t cut through the overlapping layers.  

Taking a calming breath, he flicked his eyes to Reece’s visible in the rear view mirror. Thankfully, the older man had remained oblivious to Sam’s attempt to free himself. A sudden twinkle brought Sam’s gaze back to his hands. The overhead clouds had parted and a strong beam of moonlight glinted off the silver ring that Dean had gotten him last summer at a riverfront festival in Savannah. Dean bought the matching one for himself and neither had taken them off since the moment they were slid into place. When Dad asked about them, Dean told him that he’d bought them thinking they could prove useful on a hunt – so many evil creatures feared silver and one touch could ferret them out, but Sam knew the real reason. They were a tangible reminder of a bond between brothers and a commitment between lovers. Reece had taken something that wasn’t his; he belonged to Dean. His brother would be looking for him and God help Reece when Dean found them. All Sam needed to do was give him a clue. Arms free or not, Sam had to get to his phone.

 Determinedly, he maneuvered his bound hands closer to his pocket. He curled the fingers of his left hand into a tight fist, pressing them against the heel of his right, so the fingers of his right hand could move freely. He wiggled his index and middle finger into his pocket and sucked in his stomach to give them more room to move, the hem of his pocket digging into the sensitive webbing between his middle and ring finger as he forced his hand deeper. The pads of his fingers brushed the plastic casing and he swallowed a sigh of relief. Clamping the phone between his fingers, he slowly worked the small device free. 

Reece cursed loudly and Sam froze, worried for a moment that his movements had been discovered, before a blare of horn and a jerky lane change to the left forced Sam forward on the seat again. Sam closed his eyes in case his captor checked on him and pliantly allowed the motion to manipulate his body, the seat belt catching his hips again and his body forcing his arms off the edge of the seat. Sam felt the back end of the SUV fishtail as Reece over-steered trying to bring the five thousand pound vehicle back under control. 

“Fucking idiot!” Reece snarled, blaring his own horn. Feeling the other man’s reflected gaze on him, Sam worked to slow and deepen his breaths in a feigned sleep, the same perfected way he’d used over the years to ignore Dean when riding in the backseat of the Impala. “Sorry, my sleeping beauty.”

Sam cracked an eye, the barest slit that afforded him a view through the curtain of his eyelashes. Reece’s attention was back on the road and through the front windshield Sam could see billboards flying by advertising major chain restaurants, gas stations and hotels. They were nearing a town and a decent sized one judging by the variety of dining, fueling and lodging options. Large towns meant cell towers. 

Sam’s arms still dangled down over the empty void of the footwell. Straining, he pushed his hands further into the dark recess and slowly opened his phone, each click of the spring in the hinge sounding loud as thunder in his ear. The screen lit a small portion of the floorboard.

MISSED 

10 CALLS

Sam felt the corners of his lips curl up in the smallest trace of a smile. Dean was looking for him. Checking the mirror once more to make sure Reece hadn’t noticed anything, Sam thought about what message he should send. A white billboard with a large happy face zipped by, Sam’s brain barely registering the words in bold, black print before it was gone. **_Columbia Welcomes You_**. Columbia? What states close to Indiana had a town named Columbia? Illinois, Kentucky, Missouri, Iowa, Ohio and Tennessee. Now, which one? He pushed back the throbbing behind his eyes and forced his mind to concentrate. His eyes darted to the rear view mirror, a little box on the right side helpfully displaying what direction they were going – W - and the current outside temperature – 52 degrees. They were heading west, so Kentucky, Ohio and Tennessee could be eliminated right off the bat. That left Illinois, Iowa and Missouri. The time on his phone let him know that it’d been about four hours since the bar so that removed Illinois or they’d been there before now. He was down to Missouri and Iowa. Temperature! For the last few weeks Indiana had been experiencing unseasonably warm days, but after dark the temperatures fell quickly hovering in the mid 40s. If it was in the 50s outside then they must be heading south toward warmer weather which meant Missouri. They were in Columbia, Missouri.  Sam rolled his eyes. Who knew that a life of being dragged back and forth across the country could come in so handy? 

Sam quickly opened a text message to Dean. **C-O**

“Samuel, you waking up again?”

Sam cursed the muted beeps the buttons made, he didn’t think Reece would hear.  He typed faster. **L-U**

“Samuel? You okay back there?”

 **M-B** Just another minute…

“Samuel?” Reece’s voice was commanding, demanding an answer. The car lurched to the right, leaving the pavement and jouncing over the soft shoulder.

 **I-A** A hand shot between the front seats and made a grab for Sam’s phone. Desperately, Sam dodged Reece’s hand and tried to finish. **M**

“Samuel, stop fighting me. I’m trying to help you.” 

Fingers wrapped around Sam’s hand, trying to pry the phone from his grasp. Sam fought back, grip clamping down on the device, depressed buttons creating a soundtrack for their struggle. Realizing he was at the disadvantage and losing the tug-o-war, Sam hit SEND hoping he’d given Dean enough for a starting point. With a hard yank, Reece snatched the phone from Sam’s hands and made a disgusted noise at the display. 

Blowing out a hard breath, Reece peered over the phone at Sam. “I’m impressed by your loyalty, Samuel, but you don’t have to be with Dean anymore. I got you away from him. We’re going to go somewhere and start fresh. We’ll be happy, Samuel.” 

Sam’s anger flared. “I’m not afraid of Dean. I told you. He loves me.”

“I know you believe that, but I promise, you are mistaken. He doesn’t love you, Samuel. _I_ love you. He’s brainwashed you.  You can’t see it now, but in time you will and you’ll love me back.” The passenger side window whirred down and Sam watched as his phone was tossed through the opening.

“Dean’s not the one that kidnapped me, drugged me and tied me up,” Sam jerked his body against the tape securing his hands and feet to emphasize his point.

 “You left me little choice. I needed to get you away from him so you could see the truth, but you wouldn’t talk to me anymore. So I did what I had to do. Now, we’ll stop for breakfast in a few hours. I think you should get some more sleep. You’ve had a stressful night.” At the sight of the syringe, Sam squirmed on the seat, but just as before, it was useless. A small prick preceded a wave of warmth. As Sam’s eyelids grew heavy, he heard Reece rummage around in the center console. “Let’s make sure Dean and that worthless father of yours can’t bother you anymore _and_ get what they deserve.” His mind drifted, Reece’s anxious voice floated to him. 

“Hello, Child Protective Services? Yes, I want to file a report. I think my neighbor is being abused by his dad and his boyfriend.” Pause. “His name is Sam Winchester. You have to help him. I think his father is beating him and is knowingly letting his boyfriend rape him.” Pause. “The address? 1911 Countyline Road” Pause. “I’ve seen the bruises and heard Sam screaming.” Pause. “Yeah, his name is John Winchester and the boyfriend is Dean Young. Look, a little while ago I heard a lot of noise and screaming then I saw John and Dean leave with Sam. I think he’s in danger. You have to do something.” Pause. “John drives a black 1981 GMC Sierra Grande pick-up truck and Dean has a black 1967 Chevy Impala” Pause. “My name? No, I don’t think so. If you don’t get him…Well, let me just say, I’ve seen what he does to family when he’s angry, I hate to see what’d he’d do to me.” Pause. “Just find them. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to Sam.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean’s vision blurred, his tired eyes watering, as he clicked the BACK button to return to the main archives screen of the _Bedford Tribune_. He lifted a burning cigarette from its slot in the cheap, plastic ashtray, tapped the cylinder of ash at the end free and brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply. He clicked on the link for the next day’s edition and exhaled a gust of blue-grey smoke from the corner of his mouth. Leaning back waiting for the page to load, he sucked smoke into his lungs until the stretch receptors in his brain screamed at the inflation and held it before blowing it in the direction of the ceiling. The web page changed to a digital image of the front page of the September 28 th issue and Dean sat forward. Rubbing his eyes, he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, bending the filter before dropping it down to join its already fallen comrades. 

He skimmed the cover stories for anything interesting, his hand drifting slowly in the direction of a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee. He’d stopped at the local gas station on the way back to the apartment for a large coffee and a carton of cigarettes. Right now he was 2/3 of the way through his coffee and further than that through his first pack of cigarettes.

Flicking through the pages of Section A, eyes never wavering from the screen, Dean wrapped his fingers around the cup of coffee. Clicking on Section C, Local and State, he licked his lips and raised the cup to his mouth. Skimming and dismissing stories about Junior League festivals and plans to refurbish the veteran’s park downtown, Dean moved quickly from one page to the next. On page 6 he froze, finger hovering over the mouse button and trembling hand holding the coffee cup just below his parted lips. Sam was staring at him, smiling joyfully in black and white. 

The picture was a group shot of the Mathlete team taken right after they won the regional finals. Sam stood in the back - always in the back - of the mixed group of girls and boys proudly displaying their championship medals. Next to him was a tall, older man Dean could only imagine was Mr. Reece since the caption and article didn’t list the names of the team members. It was a Kodak moment of everything Dean wanted for Sam – friends, teams, awards, _normal_. Looking at Sam’s carefree smile, Dean absently rubbed at his chest and closed the lid on the computer.

He got up and crossed to the window, leaning his forehead against the cold paned glass.  His body screamed for sleep, fighting against him with heavy eyelids and long yawns, but his mind remained stalwartly awake. Physically he needed rest, mentally he needed Sam. A patch of fog appeared on the glass in front of his mouth, and Dean dragged his finger through the moisture. D+S encased in a lopsided heart. Rolling his eyes, Dean swiped his hand through the moisture. Even Sam would have called him a girl if he’d seen that. If he’d been here. 

Rubbing the dampness on his jeans, Dean moved back to the couch and sat down with a heavy sigh. Reopening the lid to the laptop, he brushed his fingers over the oval bumper sticker – Darwin’s 8th Annual Twine Ball Days  ‘Come have a ball with the world’s largest ball of twine’ – he’d given Sam as a joke last August. He huffed a laugh and shook his head. Only Sam would keep the damn thing. Taking a swig of his coffee, he lit another cigarette and clicked on page 7, staring at the photo of Sam until the new page loaded. 

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Dean was up to the October 6th edition and still didn’t have any clues as to what had taken Sam. The empty Styrofoam coffee cup sat next to the computer, the sides half torn away in an effort to keep his fidgety fingers from reaching for the yet unopened second pack of cigarettes, and the half full Mountain Dew bottle he’d replaced it with on the opposite side. The text message beep on his cell had him pouncing on the small device with lioness prowess. He flipped it open and nearly cried out in relief when he saw he had a new message from Sam. 

Pressing the OK button, he frowned at the message on the screen:

**COLOMBIAMAWPDMJP***GTMJDM##JATW**

_What the hell?_

Not wasting time puzzling over the cryptic message, Dean quickly copied it on one of the napkins left over from dinner and forwarded the message to his father.  Picking up the napkin, Dean waited a few minutes then dialed his father’s number.

“What the hell?” John gruffly answered after the first ring. He’d laid the phone down on the seat beside him after he’d finished his phone calls. 

“That’s what I said,” Dean muttered, mind still mulling over the combination of letters and symbols before him. “I think the first word is ‘Colombia’, but I don’t have any idea with the other letters mean?”

“A town? Jesus, I hope he doesn’t mean the country. Where all is there a Colombia? There’s one in Indiana and Ohio and I think in Tennessee, too.”

“Yeah, plus I’m pretty sure we passed through one in Illinois on the trip down from Bobby’s. There’s probably more. I haven’t looked at a map in years so I don’t really know. Sam navigates; I just go where he tells me.” Dean’s voice softened as images of Sam in the passenger seat, map spread across his lap with a flashlight in one hand and a finger from the other tracing the roaming lines on the paper, ran through his mind. Teaching Sam to read maps to counter his boredom on the road had been one of John Winchester’s most ingenious ideas. The youngest Winchester had taken to the task and soon was solely responsible for maneuvering his family through the back country roads, highways and byways of the American landscape.  Dean snorted. Without Sam to show him the way, he was lost.

Nodding his head, mind supplying him with similar memories, John sighed. “That’s a lot of ground to cover, just about every direction. I’ve made some calls and called in a few favors, but even with help we need to narrow it down more. I would help if we knew what those other letters meant.”

Dean lay the napkin on the table, stood and began to pace. “I swear, when we get him back I’m going to install a GPS on him.  Get one of those transponders they use on Shark Week or maybe a Lojack.”

“GPS?” John’s eyes widened at the suggestion. _Why hadn’t he thought of that?_

“I wasn’t seriously going to-“

“Dean, I gotta go. I think I may have an idea on how to find your brother.” Without another word, John was gone.

At the sound of the dial tone, Dean shut his phone. Tentative hope bubbled in his stomach and he picked up his drink and swallowed a mouthful of soda to drown it. He wouldn’t get excited until John called back with something to get excited about.  

Plopping back down on the couch, he tapped the keyboard and woke the laptop from sleep mode. Even if they figured out where Sam was, they still needed to know what had taken him. With renewed fervor, Dean started reading the articles from October 6th.

 

* * *

 

John pulled over at a gas station and flipped through his battered journal’s address section until he reached the ‘H’s. He picked up his phone and dialed a number he hadn’t dared call since returning from Devil’s Gate Reservoir nearly four years ago with a monogrammed silver blade and condolences. 

“Harvelle’s Roadhouse.” Long-seated guilt rose in his chest at the voice that answered. Instead of the gravelly baritone of Bill Harvelle it was the no non-sense alto of his widow, Ellen. Widowed because John made a mistake and for that he didn’t think he could ever forgive himself.  “Hello?”

“Ellen,” John swallowed, “it’s John.”

“John Winchester.” She repeated, drawing out his first name. She didn’t sound upset or angry, more resigned and sympathetic?

“Don’t hang up. I know I didn’t leave under the best of circumstances, but I need help. It’s not for me,” he hurried to assure her, “it’s Sam. He’s missing.”

“I heard. Caleb was sitting at the bar when he got the call. What do you need? How can I help?” He heard the sound of a bottle opening and the thud of it being set on the counter. 

“Actually I need Ash, but, Ellen, if you know anyone who might be willing to help look, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course, John,” her brow furrowed at the sound of his voice. Gone was the stubbornness and steel. It was sad with a sharp edge of vulnerability. For the first time since meeting him, Ellen thought John sounded human. “Hold on and I’ll get Ash.”

The plastic receiver clunked on the counter and the mouthpiece picked up the ambient sounds of the bar, the click of the pool balls hitting each other, the beep of the arcade hunting game in the corner and the low level din of multiple people carrying on conversations. Over it all he could hear Ellen calling Ash to the phone. A scrape echoed down the line right before a cocky voice said, “Yallo, Dr. Badass speaking.”

John shook his head. If the man wasn’t a genius…  “Ash, it’s John Winchester.”

“JW,” Ash sniffed, “What can I do you for?”

“I need to know if I give you a cell phone number if you can track it, give me coordinates on its location?” He’d learned long ago that straightforward was the best approach when dealing with Ash. 

“Never tried it, but don’t see why not. What’re we tracking?” Ash picked up a peanut from the bar and popped it in his mouth, raising an eyebrow at Ellen when she mouthed something at him.

“Sam. Something took him. He sent us a message about an hour ago so he has his cell phone. I want you to see if you can find him.”

“Shit, JW. Why didn’t you say so? Give me his number and the provider.” Ash turned to the pad hanging by the phone and picked up the pen dangling from the string attached to the side.

“812-555-7269 through A-Line Mobile. If you get anything you can call me at 812-555-5646 or Dean at 812-555-3326.”

Tearing the top page from the pad, Ash slipped it in his pocket. “I’ll get right on it. Give me about 4 hours and I should have something for you.”

John looked at the clock on the dash, the glowing hands showing 3:49. “Thanks, Dr. Badass.”

“Anytime, mi compadre.”

* * *

 

 

Reece brushed a stray lock of hair from Samuel’s forehead as the younger man lay sleeping. _Perfect._ It was the only word that he could come up with that described Sam. He knew from the first moment the tall boy enter his classroom that he had to make Sam his own. He was so young and virile and innocent. Of course he knew that Sam wasn’t that innocent. He’d seen what Dean had convinced his boy, his angel, to do.

 _He crept up to the window of the rundown shack. Samuel deserved so much better than a shabby dilapidated home and that was one of the first things he intended to rectify once he got Samuel away. Light glowed through the sheet –_ sheet! – _covering_ _the kitchen window and he could hear voices through the thin glass. A soft thud followed by a loud groan and a breathy ‘you promised’ had him moving closer. He had to make sure that Samuel was all right._

_He’d seen him earlier that evening at the movies with that boy, Dean, from the garage. He could tell from their body language that they were arguing. Concerned, he watched which theater they entered then politely asked Erin, who’d accompanied him for a friendly night out, if she’d mind seeing – he shuddered at the memory – The Blair Witch Project instead of the newest Julia Roberts rom-com they’d come to see.  They sat five rows behind the two boys, his eyes glued to Dean’s fingers playing lightly with Samuel’s hair and Samuel’s mouth pressing gently to Dean’s. From the corner of his eye he could see Erin shooting him worried gazes, her eyes flicking to Samuel then back. She seemed just as disturbed about Samuel’s safety as he was._

_Thankfully, the movie was so horrible that Erin didn’t mind when he suggested they leave half-way through. He needed to take her home. The look in Dean’s eyes made it clear what he had planned for the rest of the evening. He couldn’t be across town dropping Erin off if – when – Sam needed him.  Ushering her to the door of her apartment, he quickly said good night and turned to leave, missing the mixture of disappointment, suspicion and concern on her face._

_Now, peering around the edge of the floral sheet, he was glad that he did. Dean had Samuel pressed against the kitchen counter, mouth ravaging Samuel’s in a bruising kiss. Pulling back, Dean smiled when Samuel tried to follow. “Suck me.” Samuel blinked once, twice and then pushed Dean back a step so he could slither down to a kneeling position._

_He watched transfixed as Samuel thumbed the button free and slid the zipper down in a slow tease. Finger curling over the denim and cotton fabric, Samuel pulled them down until Dean’s member bobbed free. He had to squeeze his own cock when those wine colored lips parted to accept Dean._

_Dean’s hands cupped Samuel’s neck, thumbs caressing the younger man’s cheek where it bulged under the mouthful, guiding the movements and depth.“That’s it, Sammy. Take it all.”_

_The blowjob was sloppy and uncoordinated, the obvious attempt by a novice, and he delighted in the knowledge that even though Samuel wasn’t as innocent as he liked, the youth was still trainable._

_“Stop.” Dean’s voice held authority and he bristled at the sound of it. Dean shouldn’t talk to Samuel with such superiority. “Clothes off. Back of the couch, now.” Obediently, Samuel rose and moved out of the kitchen._

_Stumbling over his own shoes, he followed to the living room window. He had to crouch down on the rotted front porch to see under the sheet tacked there. Samuel was already shirtless, toeing off sneakers and unfastening jeans. Denim slid down long legs followed by worn cotton boxer-briefs that appeared to have a hole in the left butt cheek. He’d buy Samuel silk boxers, something more befitting that glorious body. And God what a body it was._

_Samuel faced the couch and bent at the hips, torso folding over the dirty back and head and arms resting on the torn cushions. Dean approached from behind, hands smoothing over tanned flesh in a long arc before cupping firm cheeks. Dean knelt on the floor between Samuel’s spread legs and used thick thumbs to separate the rounded globes._

_He froze as Dean’s tongue swiped from balls to pucker and Samuel jumped with a cry of surprise. His hand moved of its own volition and soon belt and pants were undone and hanging limply around his thighs. He watched Dean’s tongue slowly take Samuel apart, the young boy’s cries and begs filling the air and fattening his cock. His hand stroked his hardened member and when Samuel lost his control, he followed after coating the greying clapboard siding in white streaks._

_Pressing a sloppy kiss to each cheek, Dean stood and helped Samuel stand. “Like that, Sammy? Told you we should do it my way.”_

_“Yeah, Dean.”_

_Quirking an eyebrow, Dean looked down at his still engorged member with a pointed glance.  Samuel sank to his knees, enveloped Dean’s cock and sucked him to completion._

_He took one last look at Samuel lapping spilt seed from Dean’s dick then turned to walk to his car. Dean’s way_. _He’d failed to protect Samuel from Dean’s advances tonight. It wouldn’t happen again, he’d make sure of it._

 

Getting out of the car, he moved to the rear door at Samuel’s feet. Reece’s eyes grazed over Samuel’s form appreciatively. That night he’d found out that Samuel wasn’t quite as pure as he thought, but in the grand scheme a little rimming and a blowjob didn’t matter. Reece would be the first to de-flower this gentle giant and then he would show Sam the true joys of sex with someone who loved you, not someone who manipulated you _his way_ into doing it.

“Samuel? Samuel, it’s time to wake up.”

Sam blinked his eyes open, a groggy feeling he wished wasn’t familiar washing over him. The overhead light was on and a cool breeze blew across his body from the open door at his feet. Tilting his head back to look out the window behind him, he could see an elevated sign for a restaurant. Biggerson’s? He’d been kidnapped and they were stopping at a fucking Biggerson’s?

A hand on his foot, shaking gently, brought his eyes and mind to the figure standing in the open doorway. Reece leaned in, his upper body pressing against Sam’s shins and effectively pinning his legs to the seat, a possessive hand uncomfortably high on Sam’s thigh. 

 “There we are.” Reece cooed when hazel eyes focused on him. He pulled a Swiss Army knife from his front pocket and with practiced ease, he opened the largest blade. Sam started to struggle when Reece moved toward him, but relaxed as the blade cut through the duct tape on his legs. He was letting him go! “We’re going to go inside and get some breakfast. Now, I know you’re still confused by the lies that Dean has fed you and don’t yet believe that you belong to me. While I understand this and recognize that you will need time to accept our new relationship, I won’t stand for you to misbehave in the interim.” He tugged at Sam’s bound wrists until the young man sat up on the seat. Leveling Sam with a hard gaze, he slid the knife under the duct tape surrounding Sam’s wrists. “You try to escape or to contact Dean or your father and I will make you sorry. Am I understood?”

Sam searched the grey eyes of the man who’d been a mentor to him and saw he was absolutely sincere in his threat. If Sam tried anything, Reece would indeed make him sorry. Ducking his head, Sam nodded. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Sam head snapped up. He wasn’t serious! The silence stretched.

“Yes, what, Samuel?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam grit out quietly.

“That’s my boy.” A swift motion and the tape around his arms released. Reece wrapped strong fingers around his bicep and guided him from the vehicle. Standing, Sam’s legs buckled from a combination of the drugs still in his system and the cramped way they were bent in the car. Reece’s arms came around him and took his weight until he was able to get his knees to lock. They were the only car in the main parking lot, parked in the spot furthest from the building. In the side lot was an old Subaru, a pick-up truck and a Saturn, probably the employees’ vehicles. Through the brightly lit windows, a woman and two men were leaning against the counter laughing and talking.

The walk to the large, glass double doors seemed to take forever, his feet feeling leaden and each step requiring effort. As they approached the hostess podium, the woman met them with a bright smile. She was attractive, a little older with long blonde hair and kind eyes that sparkled warmly in the fluorescent lighting.  Considering her, Sam wondered absently if this was what his mother would have looked like had she lived. “Two?”

“Yes, please.” Reece placed a hand low on Sam’s back and gently pushed him after the waitress when she asked them to follow her. 

“Here you go.” She placed two vinyl covered menus on the table and waited for them to take their seats. “Can I start you off with something to drink?” Pulling an order pad from the pocket of her apron, she regarded them expectantly.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee and I’ll need cream with that.” Reece picked up his menu and perused the offerings. Busy contemplating the merits of different breakfast meats, he didn’t realize that Sam had failed to answer.

“And for your son?” The waitress prodded when Sam did nothing more than blink at her dumbly.

Reece dropped his menu and glared at the woman. “He is not my son. He is my partner. Tell the woman what you want to drink, Samuel.”

Shocked at the venom in his voice, Sam said the first thing that came to mind. “Coke, please.”

“Alright then.” The woman was obviously feeling awkward, but trying valiantly to cover. “One coffee with cream and one Coke. Look over the menu and I’ll go grab these.”

“Thank you,” Reece looked at her nametag, “Regina.”

“Call me Gina. I’ll be right back.” She spun around and disappeared through the saloon doors that cordoned off the kitchen from the dining room.

“Do not embarrass me like that again, Samuel. I already warned you not to cross me.” Reece lifted his menu again.

Sam eyed the swinging door. It was less than 10 feet to his right, four steps at the most. If he could get into the kitchen, he stood a chance of getting away. “You won’t hurt me.” Sam challenged, inching closer to the end of the booth.

Laying the menu down again, Reece folded his hands over it and measured the man across from him for a long moment. “You’re right. I won’t hurt you, but I never said I would.”

“But you said…”

“I said,” Reece interrupted, “that I would make you sorry. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you, my angel, but Miss ‘Call Me Gina’ and the two buffoons in the kitchen?” He jerked his head toward the now still doors that moments ago seemed like salvation to Sam. “I could hurt them. I could kill them.” He leaned forward over the table, lifting the lapel of his coat enough that Sam could see the shoulder holster and gun hidden underneath it. “And not even bat an eyelash. I know you, Sam. You wouldn’t be concerned for your own safety, but you’d never be able to live with yourself if someone else was hurt because of you.”

Sam’s stomach fell. “I understand.” Sam looked down at his hands in his lap, but feeling the weight of Reece’s gaze lifted his head again. “Sir.” He added quickly. 

His thumb ghosted over the thin braided leather bracelet on his wrist. He’d made it and its twin around Dean’s wrist when he was ten. After 25 years of use, Dad finally decided to replace the leather interior of the Impala. Bobby put him in touch with a guy and a weekend at the salvage yard later, the Impala’s interior looked factory new. Passing the discarded leather, Sam got an idea and ran into the house to get Dean’s knife. Luckily, Bobby found him before he could seriously injure himself and offered to help after Sam explained what he wanted to do. An hour later they emerged from garage with two bracelets, one for him and one for Dean, a piece of their life to carry with them. 

“C-can I go to the bathroom?”

“Don’t you want to order?” 

“You know me.” He shrugged, repeating Reece’s words back to him. “Order whatever you think I’ll like.”

Gauging him, Reece nodded. “Okay.” As Sam started to stand up, Reece stopped him. “Remember, Sam,” he tapped his coat over the hidden holster, “not an eyelash.”

Nodding, Sam stood and slowly made his way to the front of the restaurant where the restrooms were located. In the bathroom, he tugged at the knot on his bracelet, first with his fingers and then with his teeth. The knot finally unraveled and Sam held the bracelet in his hand for a moment before he tucked the end under the edge of the mirror so that it hung down over the reflective surface. It was a long shot, a million to one Hail Mary pass, but it was all Sam had. He closed his eyes, sent up a silent prayer then exited the bathroom.

The rest of breakfast passed in silence, only broken by Gina setting their meals in front of them – bacon and eggs for Reece and pancakes for Sam – and her periodic reappearances to check if they needed anything else. Although Reece didn’t speak, he touched Sam whenever the opportunity arose. He brushed fingers over Sam’s hand if it was left on the table and ran his foot up the length of Sam’s calf if it ventured out from under the seat. Sam spent the majority of their meal with a fork in one hand, the other under his thigh and his feet bent awkwardly under the booth. 

Wiping his mouth and tossing his napkin on his empty plate, Reece dug into the inner pocket of his sports coat and pulled out a small amber medicine bottle. He opened it, tapped a circular pill with a ‘V’ cut out of the middle into his hand and held it out to Sam. “Take it.”

“What is it?” Sam examined the pill, pushing it around suspiciously with the tip of his finger.

“Valium. Take it.” He placed the bottle back in his pocket, the holster visible again when the fabric shifted. 

Sam thought about the bracelet hanging in the bathroom and made one more plea to the God his brother didn’t believe existed. Placing the pill on his tongue, he took a couple long swallows of his watered down soda. A few minutes later he was led out to the car by that omnipresent hand on his back and his arms and legs were rebound. It seemed that Reece wasn’t so confident of his ability to make Sam obey without others around to threaten. Sam lay on his back, his body becoming looser by the minute, and stroked the silver ring, pulling what comfort he could from the feel of the body warmed metal. He drifted off to sleep with thoughts of Dean, bracelets and rings, dancing through his head.

 


	5. Chapter 5

John passed the Bedford city limits sign just as dawn’s first rays colored the sky in shades of coral, pink and orange. He rolled down Main Street, the small Mom and Pop storefronts dark against the emerging light of morning breaking. It was a peaceful town – a model of Eisenhower utopianism, Rockwellian in its simplicity and serenity. A snapshot of times gone by, set in the American Midwest as a reminder of the peace of the past. It was a deceptively innocuous picture at best. Beneath the veneer of hometown Americana something had lurked in plain sight and taken a piece of what was left of his fractured soul. A late night fox in the henhouse.

Stopping in front of the house, brakes squeaking, he parked next to the Impala and knuckled the weariness from his eyes. Sleep was not a luxury he could afford right now. Police believed chances of recovering a kidnap victim were slim after the first 48 hours, but, in the hunting world, that time estimate could be overly generous. That thought in mind, he pushed open the door of his truck and made his way up the front porch stairs. 

Dean turned toward the door as he entered having heard the unmistakable rumble of his father’s truck when he pulled in the driveway. “Hey.”

“Hey.” John replied, searching his oldest’s face. Dean’d always been paler than either him or Sam, his coloring favoring Mary’s delicate peaches and cream complexion, but now he appeared gray. His bright, jade green eyes that John learned long ago shone with pure mischief were dull and resigned. With startling clarity, John realized that thing hadn’t taken a piece of Dean’s soul – it had taken Dean’s everything. They had to find Sam alive or he might as well set up twin pyres and then load his own gun. “Anything?” He gestured to the open laptop on the coffee table.

Blowing out a breath, Dean reached over and closed the lid, eyes resolutely not looking at the bumper sticker for fear of what his expression would tell his father.  A list of the states they’d identified as having a Columbia was scrawled on a notepad to the right of the computer, Indiana crossed off at the top. After he finished with the _Bedford Tribune_ editions, he decided to check the last week’s worth of issues of the local newspapers for all the Columbias. It was something to occupy his hands and mind, the former the devil’s playthings and the latter his playground. He’d already read about the drought woes and increasing academic improvement in Columbia, Indiana and was now knee deep in the battle over how to restore the gazebo in historic Columbia, Kentucky. “Yeah, I got nothing. You?”

Sighing wearily, John moved to the couch and plopped down heavily next to Dean. “I’ve called in a few favors. Bobby’s coming and Caleb is meeting up with Pastor Jim. I think Elkins is driving over, he was in Nevada chasing something. I talked to this guy Ash that I know; depending on the day he’s either a genius or stoned. He’s setting up some kind of program to track Sam’s cell.”

“You think this Ash will be able to tell us where Sam is?” Dean picked up the pack of cigarettes, jerking his wrist to force one above the others for easier extraction. He raised an eyebrow when John slapped his arm and motioned toward the box. Holding one out for his dad, Dean wondered if that lead poisoning would be contagious. It didn’t appear either of them would live to die of cancer without Sam.

Taking the cigarette, John waited until Dean lit his and passed him the lighter before he answered, “If anyone can do it, Ash can. He helped me track down a…” His cell phone rang interrupting his thought. He dug in his pocket, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. “Speak of the devil.” The muttered words dislodged the cigarette and he hissed in pain when the smoldering end fell on the exposed skin of his hand before landing on the floor. Bending down to pick it up, he answered the phone with a curse.

“Well, good morning to you too, JW.” Ash drawled over the line. “If that’s the way you answer when people call with good news, I’d hate to hear what you say to someone with bad.”

“Good news?” John sat forward on the couch, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray. Next to him Dean moved closer.

“It took some fancy hacking, A-Line has a pretty decent firewall, but I was finally able to get through and find him, or rather his cell phone. It’s about a mile east of Columbia, Missouri.” 

“Columbia, Missouri? You got coordinates?” 

“Yeah, I got them.” Ash sounded tired. “I’ll e-mail them to you. Where do you want me to send it?” 

“Send it to Dean’s account, dwinchester@mailer.srv.” John jutted his chin in the direction of the laptop. Dean leaned over and lifted the lid then signed into his e-mail account. 

“I just sent it, should be there in a minute. Let me know if you need anything else.” A feminine voice spoke in the background. “Oh, hey. Ellen says that Travis and Martin just finished a job in Tennessee. They said call them and they’ll help however they can.”

“Tell her thanks for me. I appreciate it. And Ash, I owe you one.” 

“I know you’re good for it. Good luck.” Ash hung up. Sam’s incoming call log was still up on the screen in front of him, repeated calls from a strange number highlighted in yellow. Picking up the PBR next to him, he opened a new screen and started another search. 

 Snapping his phone closed, John focused on the laptop screen willing the message to hurry and get there. They finally had a starting point and he was itching to get going. The counter next to Dean’s Inbox registered a new e-mail and Dean quickly clicked on it.

Turning to his father, he smirked. “Dr. Badass?” Dean opened the message and jotted down the coordinates - **N 38.948351 W 92.333779.**

“Told you some days he’s a genius others a stoner. Pack up while I call Travis and Martin. They’re close by and can give us a hand.”

Nodding, Dean stood and moved to the bedroom he shared with Sam, hope flickering in his chest. Shoving clothes and personal items into worn duffle bags, Dean lifted his pillow and retrieved the Bowie knife hidden there. Running a thumb along the edge to check the sharpness, he vowed that when he found the thing that took his brother, he’d make it pay. Nice and slow. Once Sammy was back with him, he’d have all the time in the world to make it suffer and he planned to use every minute to its fullest.

 

* * *

 

After stocking up on caffeine and safely hiding John’s truck behind the garage where Dean worked, they hit the road in the Impala, heading west toward the Illinois-Indiana border. John drove while Dean recounted everything that had happened since his departure – almost everything…there were some things that Dean didn’t think their father needed to know – including Sam’s recent mood swings, but, as they neared the state line, they were no closer to figuring out what took the youngest Winchester.

A police siren broke the early morning stillness and in the side view mirror Dean could see red and blue lights approaching them fast.

“You speeding?” He leaned over in the seat to look at the speedometer. 

“Not enough to get pulled over. Brake lights out?” He glanced in the rear view at the police cruiser that was quickly catching up to them, headlights flashing.

“Of course not,” Dean bristled, “Unless it just happened.”

John navigated the Impala to the side of the road when it became apparent that the commotion was for them. “What names do you have registrations in?”

Dean popped open the glove box and pushed aside several unpaid parking and speeding tickets until he found the envelope that contained the forged registrations. “Anderson, Efframian, Smith, Tyler and Simmons.” He called out the names as he flipped through the stack of Bobby’s finest work.

“Give me Efframian. I’ve got a license to match it.” John lifted to one side to retrieve his wallet and find the driver’s license with his picture and Burt Efframian’s name.

Dean handed over the registration and was just shutting the envelope back in the glove compartment when the trooper approached.

“Good morning, sir. Can I see you driver’s license and registration?” The man scrutinized them both with a cool, calculating look before fixing a hard smile on his face. 

“Of course, officer. What seems to be the trouble?”

Dean watched the man carefully as his dad passed over the requested documents. Something wasn’t right. This trooper was tightly wound, anger seething just under the surface, emotions completely at odds for a routine traffic stop. Examining the papers, the man leaned back to cast a glance into the backseat.

“We got a call about a young man who was being abused by his father and boyfriend. Your vehicle matches the description of the boyfriend’s car. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Mr. Efframian?” The officer peered over the top of his aviator glasses at them.

Being a professional liar for over fifteen years afforded John the ability to act with Emmy-winning talent on the fly. “No officer, I don’t think I do. This here is my son, Hector. As you can see he’s perfectly fine.” John infused as much Midwestern innocence as he could into his performance.

“Let me see some ID?” The trooper snapped his fingers at Dean and held his palm out.

Dean pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slid the ID for Hector Efframian from one of the slots at the back. He passed it to the officer.

The trooper looked over the license, flipping it over and examining the back, then handed it back to Dean. “So Hector is your only son?”

Dean watched the fingers on his father’s right hand, resting against his thigh, twitch at the question. Dean’s stomach turned to ice when his father answered, “Yes, my one and only. His mother died when he was a toddler and I never remarried.”

The officer’s face softened, unconsciously twirling the gold band on his left hand with his thumb. “It’s hard to find someone to live up to the memory,” he muttered, “I’m sorry to bother you gentlemen. We take accusations of child abuse very seriously around here and the car was a dead-on match. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.” The officer handed back John’s papers and thumped his fist against the door of the Impala, then headed back to his cruiser.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean took the registration back from his dad. “Coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence.” John watched the trooper get back in his car and make a U turn to go back the way they came.

“Me either.”

  

* * *

 

Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the weak sunlight warming the cool dawn air. His muscles felt too pliant and uncoordinated as the last of the drugs still circulated his system. His stomach seized, on the verge of emptying his pancakes on the floor, and he groaned at the spasm.

“Awake again so soon? You have a high tolerance for drugs, Samuel. I will have to learn to adjust the dosages accordingly.” 

Sam opened his eyes to see steel blue staring at him in the reflection of the rear view mirror. His stomach clenched again and he swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. “Imma be sick.” He frowned as the words came out slurred and hoped that Reece got the message.

“Hold on, angel. There is a rest stop right up here. We’ll get you out and see if you feel better.”

A few minutes later, Reece stopped the car and came around to the back door. He cut the tape holding Sam’s legs and hands together and helped the youth sit up. “Remember the rules, Samuel. There might not be any cute waitresses around, but I’m sure the Hendersons’ would like to make it to their destination safely.” He nodded out the passenger window to an RV parked a few spaces away. Strapped to the back were bicycles, two adult and one with training wheels and tasseled handlebars. The drapes were drawn against the emerging morning light and the vehicle was silent. “Now, come on. Let’s get you some fresh air to settle your stomach.”

Reece pulled him from the car and held him until he gained his balance. Straightening up, Sam’s stomach lurched and churned. “Throw up.” He managed before clamping his mouth shut, worried his gut thought the words were permission.

Hurrying him into the small building at the center of the complex, Reece guided him into the handicapped stall at the end. Sam shoved the lock into place and barely made it to the commode before he vomited up his breakfast. In between his retching he could hear Reece’s soothing words from outside the stall door.

“It’s okay, Samuel. Get it all up. You’ve allowed yourself to get too worked up over everything. You just need to calm down and you’ll feel better.”

Sam tuned him out, allowing the sound of his own heaving to fill his ears. He wanted to rage at the man. Yell at him that if he hadn’t drugged Sam to the gills he wouldn’t be sick, but in the end the most he could do was lean over the toilet. After several long minutes, Sam sat back against the disgusting tile and breathed through the lingering nausea. 

“You okay, Samuel?” Reece’s voice was accompanied by a small knock to the door.

“Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” Sam tucked his feet underneath him and pushed up from the dirty floor.

“ _Just_ a minute, Samuel. Be sure to rinse your mouth. I’ll be waiting outside making sure that the Hendersons’ are nice and safe.”

Sam waited until he heard the hiss of the hydraulic arm on the main restroom door then flushed the toilet and exited the stall. He walked over the sink and slammed his hand down on the cool porcelain in frustration. Jerking his hand back, he looked at the small river of blood traveling from his palm down to his wrist and forearm. Examining the sink, he found an area where the enamel was chipped leaving a sharp edge. Lifting his arm, he watched mesmerized as the blood flowed over his skin, following the indentations and grooves created by his muscles. 

Catching the droplet at the head of the stream with the forefinger of his other hand, he smeared it over the pad with this thumb. His eyes slowly moved to the mirror and an idea started to form. _Variations on a theme_. Gathering more blood on his finger, he started to draw on the glass. 

The rune was as clear in his mind as the day he created it.  Finishing the last line, he rinsed the blood from his finger and arm and wrapped a paper towel around his still bleeding hand. Reece was waiting for him just outside the restroom entry and immediately noticed the makeshift bandage.

“You’ve injured yourself, Samuel.” He frowned, lifting Sam’s hand to remove the towel and examine the wound.

“The sink was chipped. I cut myself on a sharp section.” Sam tried to pull his hand back, but Reece’s hold was firm.

“You need to be more careful. You mustn’t damage what is mine. So far you have made yourself ill and hurt yourself. In the future, please know that will not be tolerated.” Reece replaced the towel and curled Sam’s fingers over it to hold it in place.

Gritting his teeth, Sam bit back that he was not Reece’s, he was Dean’s. A glance to the parking lot showed a young woman and a little girl standing next to the Hendersons’ RV. Swallowing his protest, Sam ducked his head in submission. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” Reece crooned and led Sam back to the car with that hated hand on his back. 

Passing a bulletin board, Sam saw a four foot by eight foot map of Kansas tacked up behind the glass. A large red dot labeled helpfully with ‘YOU ARE HERE’ showed their current location. They were somewhere off I-35 just southwest of Kansas City, less than an hour and a half from Lawrence. Wouldn’t it be something to die so close to where he was born?

Reece ushered him to the car and maneuvered him on the back seat again. The older man retrieved a first aid kit from under the seat, cleaned and bandaged Sam’s hand. Leaning over the console, he returned holding a syringe. Sam eyed the plastic and metal, a feeling of dread filling him. The drugs gave Reece too much control over him and Sam needed to take it back.

“Wait, wait, please!” Sam held his hands up as Reece laid the syringe on the seat next to his hip. “Sir, no more drugs, please. My stomach…” He curled a hand around his abdomen for emphasis. “I promise, sir, I’ll be good. You don’t have to drug me.” Sam forced his hand to rest on Reece’s arm.

Reece smiled down at the hand on his arm. “I see that. You are my good boy.” He stroked Sam’s hair missing the shudder that the younger man tried hard to suppress. “It just took you a little while to realize it. Let’s compromise.” He picked up the syringe and leaned over the console again. This time he returned with a smaller one and showed it to Sam. “This is Benadryl. It has the same formula as Dramamine so it should settle your stomach and help you get some rest. We’re almost there, not much further. Then we can start our life together.”

Resigned, Sam held out his arm and braced for the pinch he knew was coming. Reece’s new belief that Sam wanted to be his ‘good boy’ – Sam didn’t suppress the shudder this time – didn’t extend far enough that he felt comfortable with Sam unbound. Once again Sam’s hands and feet were circled in duct tape and he was lain out on the back seat. 

Feeling the rumble of the engine starting, Sam let his mind drift back to the rune on the mirror. The odds of Dean finding it were even less than him finding the bracelet at the Biggerson’s. The restaurant was one of Dean’s favorites so he might find it. What was the likelihood he’d be traveling down I-35 and have the urge to pee at the right moment? At least he knew it was something that Dean would recognize immediately.

_“What is it, Sam?” Dean’s finger traced the straight lines and angles of the design on the paper._

_“It’s a rune.”_

_“Obviously. Where did you get it?”_

_“I-I created it.” Sam ducked his head and blushed when Dean’s gaze snapped from the drawing to him. “When you said you wanted to get a tattoo, but wanted it to mean something, I designed this.”_

_“You made this?” Dean’s voice was full of awe and wonder. He went back to mapping the pattern with this finger, tactilely committing it to memory. “What’s it mean?”_

_“It’s a composite of three Celtic runes. The base” Sam ran his finger over the upward pointed arrow “is tiwaz, the warrior’s rune. Then the overlapping othila rune” his pad copied the mirror imaged elongated ‘z’s that sprouted from the vertical line of tiwaz, “for family. Finally, gebo,” he traced the ‘x’ in the center, “for love, to tie it all together.”_

_Dean silently stared at the paper and Sam felt self-consciousness prickle at is nape and color his cheeks. “Sorry. It…it was stupid.” He placed the tips of his fingers on the paper and slid it across the table closer to him._

_Dean’s hand came down quickly, stilling the sliding sheet. “Where should I put it?”_

_“You want to get it?” Sam couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice._

_“What do you think? Shoulder blade?” Dean ignored Sam’s question and tugged the design from his brother’s fingers. “It’s close to my heart but somewhere Dad isn’t likely to see and freak out about the ink?”_

_“Yeah, Dean. I think that’s the perfect place.”_

Sam watched the billboards blur by the windows until boredom and Benadryl pulled at his eyelids. Yeah, it was a long shot, but sometimes a long shot was all you had.

  

* * *

 

“You gotta be kidding me.” Dean gestured at a white billboard with a huge yellow smiley face on it. “Columbia welcomes you, Dad.”

John snorted and focused on the stretch of asphalt in front of him. According to Ash’s coordinates, Sam was around here somewhere, but the next exit wasn’t for miles and fields lined both sides of the road. What if Sam was lying beside the road, hidden in the tall grass? 

“Hey,” Dean sat up straighter in his seat and pointed off to the side of the interstate, “does that patch of grass look matted to you? Like maybe a car pulled over there?”

“Sure does.” John maneuvered to the shoulder and slowed the car. 

The doors to the Impala opened like the spreading of a raven’s wings and the two hunters emerged. Dean slid his phone from his inside jacket pocket and dialed Sam’s number. 

_Please, please, please._

In the distance, he could hear Sam’s phone echoing each ring he heard over the line. They moved in tandem toward the sound. When the phone switched to voicemail, Dean hung up and called again. Swinging their boots side to side, they separated the long grass blades and moved methodically through the field toward the sound. 

Hanging up, Dean glanced down to redial and saw something gray nestled in the yellow reeds. Bending down, he picked up the plastic square, heart hammering in his chest. “Dad, I think I found it.” He flipped open the cell phone and ran a thumb over the cracked screen. Distantly he heard his dad’s boots tromping the grass in his haste to reach him.

The display showed 10 missed calls, all from him, and a small envelope in the corner indicated unheard voicemails. Pushing the message button, he was surprised to see that Sam had 38 new voicemails. Dean knew that three were him from the previous night, the rest were from an unfamiliar number dating back to the end of the previous week.

_Who would have called Sam so many times and why didn’t Sam listen to the messages?_

Passing the phone to his father, Dean’s eyes roved over the gently swaying field. What in the hell had Sam gotten himself into?

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The bed was comfortable, more so than his body was accustomed to, and the pillow was fluffy. Shifting his head, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of the pillowcase, the scent of sunshine and fresh air filled his nose. It smelled like the sheets had been line-dried on a summer day. An annoying lock of hair – he’d never use that adjective to describe his shaggy mop around Dean or Dad or they’d have the scissors out before he could blink – fell across his face and tickled his nose. Unwilling to move from his position nestled in the warm sheets, he scrunched his face and twitched his nose, but the strands only shifted to a different, more irritating spot. 

Sighing softly, he raised his hand to brush away the hair and rub his agitated nose. He paused, hand lifted from the mattress. An unexpected weight around his wrist accompanied by the clinking of metal forced his heavy eyelids to lift. 

The room was dreary, the grey overcast daylight pressing against the window doing little to expel the shadows in the corners. Blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, he slowly took in his surroundings. He was lying on a large bed, tucked beneath lush navy blue bedding complete with petal soft sheets and a plush comforter. The room was expansive, easily bigger than some hotel rooms he’d stayed in over the years, with rich oak paneling on the walls and hardwood, just a shade darker than the walls, on the floors. The Shaker furniture was functional, lots of drawers for storage, but simplistic, clean lines and minimalistic embellishments. The only things out of place in the cozy room were the manacles encircling Sam’s wrists that led to an eye hook just to the right of the headboard.

Tugging on the chains proved ineffectual as did trying to slip the metal bracelets over his hands. _Damn son, you’re going to be huge if you ever grow into those paws._ The memory of his father words made his heart clench painfully and he pulled once again at the chain binding him to the wall. 

His eyes snapped to the door at the squeak of the hinge to find Reece leaning against the jamb, arms folded over his abdomen, studying him curiously. “You’re only going to hurt yourself again and I’ve already told you once that I won’t stand for you injuring what belongs to me.”

“I told _you,_ I belong to Dean. I’ll die before I ever belong to you,” Sam spat and tried to scoot further back on the bed as the man approached. He barely made it half-way when his tether pulled tight.

“I truly hope it won’t come to that, Samuel. It appears that these,” he yanked on the chains, forcing Sam’s arms and, by default, his body closer to the edge again, “will be necessary for a little while longer.” Reece leaned forward until his face hovered just above Sam’s. “At least until you remember that you are mine.” The last word slipped out in a possessive growl. 

Sam glared at the man, watching carefully as he moved to the dresser against the opposite wall. “I’ll never be yours. Even if I stay chained for the rest of my life, I’ll never be yours.” 

Reece opened a drawer and when he turned around, he held clothing in his hand. “We’ll see,” he smiled, “I think you’ll come around though. I bought you some clothes.” He unfolded the clothing, proudly showing Sam each item – boxers, a shirt, a pair of jeans – before laying it out on the foot of the bed. “I had to sneak into your gym locker to make sure the sizes were right. This is how you were meant to dress,” he indicated the outfit, “Not in the poor man’s rags your father provided you. You deserve so much better and I can give it to you. Soon you’ll realize that. You’re too smart of a boy not to. But until then…” Reece sighed and looked pointedly at Sam’s bound hands.

Sam blinked blankly for a few minutes, mind trying to reconcile the lunatic in front of him with compassionate teacher he’d admired. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Reece moved quickly, one hand closed over the edge of the bedspread while the other reached into the nightstand drawer. Cold air rushed over Sam’s torso when the covers were pulled back in a swift motion. It was the first time that Sam realized he was dressed in nothing but his boxers and the faded blue t-shirt he’d worn under his button-up. While asleep, not only had Reece carried him from the car, but stripped his clothes as well. 

Seeing Sam’s shocked face, the older man chuckled and let his gaze follow the long tanned lines. The hand in the drawer continued to shift the contents. “Surprised me too. Sedatives barely kept you down, but one dose of Benadryl put you out like a light.”

Sam’s body curled in on itself trying to hide from the stranger’s gaze that felt like a physical caress over his skin.  Reece removed his hand from the drawer, his fingers clutching a large pocketknife.  Faster than he would have thought possible, Reece quickly gathered the chains in his free hand, close to the manacles around Sam’s wrist, and held them to the mattress. He sat on the edge of the covers pooled around Sam’s hips, stretching them taut and pinning the boy’s lower body to the bed. 

“You don’t have to wear the things that I bought you.” 

With a flick of his thumb, the long blade of the pocketknife snapped into place. Just like the one in the car, the edge appeared wickedly sharp. The pointed edge drifted through the hair above Sam’s eye to land gently against his throat. Sam struggled to move away from the threat, but was held firmly in place by Reece’s grip on the chain and weight on the restricting covers. The knife ghosted over the thin skin of his neck and dipped beneath the collar of his shirt. The finely honed metal sliced through the material with ease, slicing the fabric neatly in two from collar to hem. The knife drew a lazy line up Sam’s chest, made a turn at the base of his throat then wound its way back down. At the waistband of his boxers, just visible above the blankets trapping his pelvis, it slid under the elastic. A quick twist of Reece’s wrist and the band was cut before his hand trailed to the other side to make a similar cut. 

Closing the knife, he smiled down at the teenager. “But I refuse to let you walk around looking like a peasant. So now you have two options: wear the clothes I have graciously provided for you or go naked. Your choice.” He shrugged his shoulders, sliding the knife into the front pocket of his pants. Letting go of Sam’s right hand, he held the left in a loose grip, fingers lightly brushing over the bandage from earlier. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and a moment later the shackle fell limply to the bed. “I need to check on lunch. I’ll give you a few minutes to make a decision on your dining attire. If you decide to dress, I’ll help you with the shirt when I return.”

Sam watched his former teacher leave the room then closed his eyes. There was no way in hell he was walking around naked. Sitting up slowly, the remains of his shirt slipped from his shoulders. He stretched to reach the clothes at the end of the bed and tugged them closer. Standing, his boxers fell in a tattered heap on the floor. He examined the new pair, 100% silk according to the tag, and pulled them up his legs with the jeans soon following. Sitting on the bed to stretch the stiff denim of the newly purchased pants, he looked at the royal blue button up. Pushing the t-shirt off his free arm he slid it down the one still bound to the wall. He shoved his left arm in the sleeve of button-up shirt and draped it over his shoulders. He wouldn’t be able to finish until his other arm was free. Eying the nightstand, the only piece of furniture within reach besides the bed, he flicked a glance at the door then opened the top drawer.

Shifting aside reading glasses, Emory boards and – _Oh God!_ – condoms and lube, he jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder. 

“Looking for something, Samuel?”

Sam swallowed hard and turned to face his captor. “Tissue?”

Reece went to the dresser where a blue, cube-shaped box sat. Plucking one from the top, he brought it over to Sam. “I’m glad to see that you decided to cooperate. Of course, I wouldn’t have objected to you being naked.” Looking at Sam’s shirt, he smiled. “That color brings out the blue flecks in your eyes, just as I thought it would.”

Grabbing Sam’s free left hand he locked the manacle around it then released his right arm, his hand gripping the free appendage tightly. He slipped Sam’s arm through the empty sleeve then secured the arm again. Sam’s hands flew to the buttons, fastening them before Reece could help. He worked quickly, hindered slightly by the bulky gauze wrapped around his palm; desperately trying to cover is body from his captor’s appraising gaze. When he finished, Reece unlocked the chain from the wall and coiled it around his left hand. “Lunch is ready. Let’s get something to eat.” His hand circled around Sam’s bicep, in a grasp just short of bruising, and guided him down the hall to the Kitchen.

Across the hall from the room he’d woken up in was the bathroom. They passed a closed door next to the bathroom that had a deadbolt and a padlock and Sam shivered. At the end of the hall, the living room was on the right and the kitchen was on the left. Both rooms were decorated with minimal furniture, but the pieces were designed to give the home a warm feeling. Glancing out the windows, Sam could see dense trees surrounding the home on all sides. All he had to do was get into those woods then he could vanish. There was no waitress here to threaten, no young families. He just needed an opening.

“Sit right here, Samuel.” 

Sam sat down in the chair Reece indicated, twisting his wrists to manipulate the metal bracelets into a more comfortable position. Reece uncoiled the chain from his hand, the links tinkling against the tile floor. He bent down and disappeared under the table. Curiously, Sam leaned back to see what the older man was doing. Reece was locking Sam’s chain to an eye hook set into the floor. 

_Who the hell had hooks in their floor? How many people had Reece done this to?_

Standing and brushing non-existent dirt from his pants, Reece took in Sam’s wide-eyed look. “Just a precaution.” He went to the counter and pulled two bowls from the cupboard. Steam rose from a pot on the stove that Sam could hear bubbling over the simmering heat. Reece stirred the contents, and the smell of savory vegetables and cooked meat made his mouth water. “I made stew. You mentioned it was your favorite comfort food.”

Sam looked away at the reminder of how many seemingly insignificant things he’d freely told Reece about himself. His eyes roved over the living room, noticing an array of pictures on the roughhewn mantle. Each photo showed Reece smiling brightly with his arm looped around a different man. Actually, man might have been using the term loosely. Most of Reece’s photographic companions didn’t look much older than Sam and some seemed to be younger. There was something off about the men’s – boy’s – expressions, but Sam couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

“What are you looking at, angel?” A bowl thudded on the heavy wooden table and Sam startled at Reece’s voice so close. Self-consciously his eyes darted to the mantle again before he focused them firmly on the table before him.

Reece followed Sam’s furtive gaze and smirked. Sam was jealous of his past lovers. “I won’t lie, Samuel. I have a past, but rest assured I didn’t love them. Not like I love you. They were flawed and imperfect. Unlike you, my angel.”  He smoothed a hand over Sam’s hair, gently squeezing the nape of his neck.

Sam forced his body to remain still and not shy away from the unwanted touch. He counted the carrots in his bowl and then the potatoes, hoping to distract his mind. Sam laced his fingers together in his lap, the chain dangling between his legs, and absently picked at the corner of the tape securing his bandage with his thumbnail.

Returning with his own lunch, Reece sat next to Sam. He scooped a bite of stew onto Sam’s spoon and held it in front of Sam’s mouth. When the younger man didn’t open immediately, he prodded Sam’s lip with the utensil, leaving a smear of sauce on the lush flesh.  

“No, thank you.” Sam’s eyes remained downcast. He counted peas and then pieces of meat. 

“You need to eat, angel.” 

“Not hungry.” Sam mumbled, recounting the carrots and started on the other corner of the tape.

The spoon clattered against the side of the bowl, shifting the stew and making Sam lose his place.  Reece pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Why must you make everything so difficult, Samuel?”

Sam’s eyes remained downcast, his fingers playing with the flap of tape he’d pulled loose. Reece picked up the spoon again, gathered another bite on the concave utensil and raised his hand to Sam’s mouth. When stew warmed metal touched Sam’s lips, he turned his head to the side, the brown gravy leaving a streak from the corner of his mouth to his cheek.

With a frustrated sigh, Reece flung the spoon down. It hit the table, sending a spray of meat, vegetables and sauce across Sam’s neck, chest and arms, then bounced into his lap. Reece looked over Sam’s food splattered clothes and body, his face reddening at the sight. Anger flashed in his eyes as he pushed back from the table and rose to gather his untouched bowl and Sam’s.  From the corner of his eye, Sam watched the older man throw the dishes in the sink, the sound of glass breaking echoed in the silence. When Reece turned back toward him, he had a hard, unreadable expression on his face that made Sam want to cower.

“You’ve gotten yourself dirty, Samuel.” Smiling tightly, he approached the table and bent to unlatch the chain from the hook in the floor. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He stood, coiling the chain around his hand again. He pulled Sam out of his chair with a sharp tug and dragged him down the hallway to the bathroom.

“I’d really hoped my first experience with your body would be in the bedroom, but seeing your naked skin is a treat no matter the circumstances.” He leaned into the shower to turn on the water, forcing Sam by the short leash of chain to bend forward. “Now, strip for me, Samuel.”

Sam jolted, his back coming up hard against the opposite wall in his attempt to put more space between them. His eyes roved over the small room looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. The counters were clear, devoid of even a soap dispenser, the walls were blank and the cabinet drawers and doors were padlocked shut. The facilities at Leavenworth weren’t this secure.

Reece tracked his visual exploration of the bathroom and smiled ferally when the moment Sam realized there was nothing in here to help him dawned in those beautiful hazel eyes.  “Still want to make everything difficult? You know things will be so much better when you stop fighting me and accept that I’m just trying to take care of you. One last chance, Samuel, strip or I’ll remove your clothing for you.”

Sam blinked, his hand coming up to clutch the fabric of his shirt closer to his chest. Reece waited a few moments then shrugged and moved closer. Sam tried to push him away, but his bound hands and the short tether held by Reece weakened the motion. 

“Fine! We’ll do it this way.” Reece growled. He yanked the chain, forcing Sam off balance, and hauled him to the shower.

The shower stall was immense, easily large enough to fit several people comfortably. Reece hooked a foot around the leg of a small stood in the furthest corner and scooted it to the center. Grabbing Sam’s wrists in one of his hands, he stepped up on it and raised Sam’s arms above his head. Looking up Sam noticed thick carabiners dangling from another hook set in the tiled ceiling just to the inside of the overhead light. Curling his body, he tried to pry his hands from Reece’s grip. The anger Sam saw in the kitchen flashed again right before pain exploded across his cheek. Shocked by the impact, Sam stopped struggling and was forced to balance on the balls of his feet as holes on the side of his manacles he’d failed to notice earlier were threaded onto the open carabiners. Renewing his struggles, he watched helplessly as his captor secured the screwgate and stepped down from the stool.

“You made me do that, Samuel. Do not make me do it again. I’ll be right back.” Reece promised then left the room carrying the stool with him.

Sam dangled from the ceiling, too far from the side walls to get any leverage. The showerhead rained a constant spray of lukewarm water over his calves and feet. He lifted his legs from the floor forcing the hook to take his full weight, but quickly dropped them when Reece reentered, naked.

“There is a wonderful website that caters to mountain climbers and rappelers.” The older man began conversationally as he stepped up to Sam, allowing the warming spray coming from the showerhead to pelt his back. The pocketknife was back in his hand and flicked the blade out. “They offer a wide variety of equipment necessary for the hobbies and the quality is exceptional.” A few quick flicks of his wrist and the shredded remnants of Sam’s new shirt fell to the wet tile of the shower floor.  Folding the blade closed, he tossed it in the sink. “All of their carabiners are weight tested and certified to 300 pounds and this style is to 500 pounds. I can’t have them breaking and hurting you.”  

Thick fingers worked the button of Sam’s jeans and he shut his eyes tight as his cheeks flamed in humiliation. He, the son of a hunter and trained since elementary school, was chained naked and defenseless in the shower at the full mercy of his captor. His jeans and boxers fell with a sloshy thud.

Reece reached around him and grabbed a bottle from a shelf cemented in the side of the shower. “I think it’s time we went over the rules, Samuel. First,” he massaged tea scented shampoo into Sam’s thick hair, gently scratching over his scalp. “you are mine. You belong to me.” He frowned when he saw a purple lovebite on Sam’s collarbone. Face hardening, he pushed on the bruise reveling in the gasp that erupted from Sam’s lips. “No one touches you or looks at you. Second,” He lifted the showerhead from the wall and rinsed the shampoo from Sam’s hair, “you do not damage what is mine. I expect you to take the utmost care of yourself.”  

He picked up a bar of soap and rubbed suds over Sam’s chest and shoulders. He moved methodically over the tense muscles of the young man’s abdomen and down the front of his legs. He came up the back of his legs, skirting over his ass, then up the hard planes of his back. He leaned forward to whisper in Sam’s ear. “They’re simple rules really. Especially for someone of your intelligence, Samuel, but if you misbehave you will be punished.” Saving the best for last, Reece twirled the soap in his hands and reached around to Sam’s cock and balls. 

Sam buried his face in his bicep, his whole body shuddering. His stomach turned with each pass of Reece’s hand over his groin and a tear slid unbidden down his cheek. When the hands left his front and circled to the back, he tried to focus his mind elsewhere. He thought of John’s gravelly laugh on the rare occasions he’d heard it or of Dean’s emerald green eyes dancing with mirth, but the memories of his family only made the bile rise higher. He clenched his butt cheeks when Reece probing fingers tried to separate them, desperate to maintain some kind of dignity. His eyes flew open at the angry hiss he heard.

Reece sprung to his feet and rounded on Sam, his hand flying to Sam’s throat. “You slut! You spread your legs for that bastard, didn’t you? You let him use you like the two dollar whore you are!” 

The fingers around his neck tightened and Sam gasped for air. Last night – was that only last night? – after the fight, the sex had been phenomenal just like make-up sex should be. It had also been a little rough. Dean was always caring and gentle when they were intimate, but after the argument both of them needed something more – to infuse a bit of pain with the pleasure. Later, at the bar, he blushed and smiled at the aches he could feel and the one who’d put them there. With the horror of the last few hours, he’d forgotten all about them. 

“I apologize, Samuel. That was unfair. I’m sure you didn’t want it. Don’t worry, my angel,” he ran a soothing hand over Sam’s face and neck, lingering on the lovebite again, “I’ll remove his taint from you, make you pure again.”

 

* * *

 

 Dean opened the door to the Impala and shivered at the unexpected cold air that rushed in. Last night a cold front had blown through Eastern Kansas, following a late season rain, and the mild autumn days had turned gray and cold in its wake. John emerged from the driver’s side, pulling his leather jacket tighter around his shoulders and made his way to the glass door entrance. An elderly couple was leaving and Dean held the door, swallowing the nauseous feeling the smell floating on the breeze caused. Normally the words Biggerson’s and food had him finding the nearest exit, but today his worry had his stomach in knots and his need to keep searching for Sam had his legs bouncing. The only reason John had been able to convince him to stop was they were meeting up with Bobby.

 

The family friend was the first call that John made after hearing that Sam was missing. He’d known the junkyard owner for years having met him through a mutual friend not long after Mary was killed. The boys called him ‘Uncle Bobby’, but really he was more of a second father. Half the scars on the boys’ knees came from them crawling over the old wrecks surrounding Bobby’s house. If anyone would understand and sympathize about the situation, it was Bobby.

 

An older woman with long blonde hair greeted them at the podium. Out of habit, Dean glanced down at her nametag – Regina – and followed her to a table in the back with a clear view of the parking lot. She recited the daily specials and indicated a card on the table with some sort of pancake and whipped cream concoction Dean thought Sam would love then left to return to the podium.

 

Dean picked up the menu, words and pictures floating before his eyes but never penetrating his mind. He let the menu fall back to the table and took in the other patrons. Three elderly couples sat at a long table in the center of the dining area. Two chairs at the end were empty and Dean wondered if they’d been occupied by the couple that he held the door for earlier. One of the booths held a group of college aged kids with books and papers stacked around their plates. They seemed in a heated debate over something or another. However, it was the booth across from them that held Dean’s attention. Two men were sitting close on one side and talking quietly. They were young, older than the college kids, but still shy of mid-twenties. He watched their expressions and body language – the soft formation of words on their lips, the adoration in their shining eyes and the reverence in their gentle touches. These men loved each other…were _in_ love with each other. A lump formed in Dean’s throat. Did he and Sam look like that when they were alone? Would he ever get to see Sam smile at him like that again?

 

“Dean? Coffee?”

 

He looked at the man across from him, everything he did – and did not – want to be personified in leather and stubble. “Sorry, what?”

 

John’s eyes softened with a twinge of pity creasing the corners. He gestured to the brunette waitress standing at the end of the table, pen hovering over a thick pad. “Would you like some coffee?”

 

Dean blinked once then nodded his head. “Yeah. Thanks.”

 

“Not a problem, sweetheart. Y’all ready to order or do you need a few minutes?” Dean could feel her eyes on him and normally he’d smile and wink and bowl her over with the charm, but even the idea of flirting made him feel dirty.

 

“No, we’re waiting on a third so we’ll order when he gets here.” John answered, eyeing his son carefully.

 

“Their third would like a cup of coffee, please. I’ll be ready to order when you get back,” a gruff voice startled the waitress who was still giving Dean the once over. Bobby slid into the booth next to John and picked up Dean’s discarded menu.

 

“Uh, sure. No rush. I’ll just go get your coffees,” the girl blushed and turned to get their drinks.

 

Bobby’s face was lined and drawn, dark circles underlining the fatigue present in his eyes. The Winchesters knew he’d driven all night to meet them, worried about Sam and wanting to help. Bobby removed his hat, setting it on the seat next to him, then laid down his menu and raised his eyebrows expectantly at the two other men.

 

“Ash tracked down Sam’s cell to Columbia, Missouri. We found it beside the freeway.” John sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “There were 35 voicemails that Sam never listened to.”

 

“Thirty-five? You able to listen to them? Figure out why Sam didn’t?” Bobby noticed Dean’s eyes drop to his hands and his lips tightened at the guilt clearly visible on the young hunter’s face. Bobby had never seen Dean so quiet; it was disturbing.

 

“Over half were nothing more than breathing, but the others were basically the same – some man, some _thing_ begging Sam to call him, insisting to talk to him. They all originated from the same number, but when we tried calling it back it was disconnected.” John nodded his thanks to the waitress when she returned with their coffees.

 

After ordering, Bobby nudged Dean with the menu and he looked up at the waitress watching him with eager eyes. Taking the menu, Dean pointed randomly at something on the menu and hoped it was anything other than oatmeal. He hated oatmeal. People weren’t meant to eat anything that resembled wallpaper paste. The waitress beamed at him, her fingers brushing his when he handed over his menu. Her low heeled shoes clicked against the tile flooring as she disappeared through the swinging double doors that led to the kitchen.

 

“Do you know who this man was?” Bobby’s clear blue eyes volleyed from Dean to John.

 

Dean felt the weight of Bobby glance and through sheer will didn’t curl in on himself. “I don’t know who it was.” He cleared his weak voice. “Sam never mentioned anyone bothering him and I didn’t notice…I didn’t…” He cleared his throat again and swallowed, gaze drifting out the window to the wet asphalt. Bobby’s Pinto was parked next to the Impala, the rust and Bondo contrasting against his baby’s shiny black paint job.

 

“The messages,” Bobby took a sip from his mug, “what did they say exactly? Anything about ‘come to me’?”

 

“No, nothing to make me think it was a crocotta. Plus, whose voice would it imitate? It isn’t like Sam would recognize Mary’s…”

 

Dean gaze snapped back when his father’s words broke off. John appeared stricken and Dean was saddened to learn that John had not, until now, realized that Sam wouldn’t know his mother’s voice. Dean knew though, had always known.

 

 When he couldn’t sleep, Dean would lie in bed and remember his mother singing _Hey Jude_ to him, the lilting pitch she used for the chorus and the soft soprano on the verses. Sam would snuffle or smack his lips in his sleep and guilt would spike through Dean that he had memories of the wonderful woman who’d given birth to them when all Sam had of her was his father’s vengeance. Dean was never more afraid than the nights he lain there and couldn’t recall the exact tone of her voice, heart thundering at the idea that he was forgetting her. Those nights he envied Sam’s ignorance; never knowing had to be better than wistful mourning. The thought would just as quickly curdle in his stomach and he’d find himself curled around his sleeping brother, humming The Beatles into soft curls.

 

His eyes itched and burned. What if all he had left of Sam was memories? Would he start to forget the sound of Sam’s voice, the timber of his laugh, the softness of his lips…

 

“I, uh,” he jerked to his feet, acid scorching its way up his throat, “bathroom.”

 

John nodded in acknowledgment, watching a pack of motorcycles pass by in a rumbling herd.

 

“So,” Bobby set his mug back down on the cardboard coaster advertising Biggerson’s limited time only pumpkin pie, “not a crocotta. Anything else that may give us an idea of what we’re up against when we find Sam?”

 

A smile twitched the corner of John’s lip at Bobby’s _when we find_ , not _if_. _If_ implied that they’d failed and failure wasn’t an option. “No. Like I said, they started out begging Sam to call then turned increasingly aggressive. The last one pretty much demanded Sam speak with him. It could be a shapeshifter, a demon or any of the other fifty million evil things out there. ”

 

Bobby studied his coffee for a few quiet minutes. “Have you guys thought that maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree? Maybe it’s not supernatural.”

 

“What do you mean? If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, more than likely it’s a duck. If it’s not supernatural then what would it be?”

 

Bobby sighed. “Human?”

 

John brought his fist down on the table, rattling the silverware and spilling Dean’s untouched coffee. “You think Sam wasn’t able to defend himself against a human?”

 

“I think that humans are wild cards. More unpredictable than anything we usually deal with and a helluva lot more dangerous. I just don’t want you to get tunnel vision. Those phone calls sound more like human obsession than demonic possession.”

 

“If it was anyone other than us then I’d agree, but with what we do and who we are? How can it be anything else? I honestly don’t care what it is. It’s dead when I find it. But for right now, I have to concentrate on getting Sam back.” He cast a glance at the mens’ room door. “For both our sakes.”

 

 

* * *

 

Dean stepped into the middle stall, locked the door and sat on the commode. He took some deep, calming breaths and tried to reel in the fear trying to suffocate him. He had to get a grip. Losing it would not bring Sam home. He sat there a few minutes until he felt more in control. Rolling his shoulder and popping his neck, he blew out a breath and exited the stall.

 

The water sputtered from the faucet, air in the pipes forcing its way out, and Dean waited for the stream to even out before running his hands under it. A loud pop and a stinging sensation to the back of his hand forced him to jump back, hand moving to the gun snugged in the waistband of his jeans. Whipping his head back and forth, but not finding any threats, he left his gun in its hiding place. He stepped forward to the sink and noticed several pieces of opaque glass near the drain, riding the turbulent wake of the falling water. Glancing up at the light fixture set above the mirror, a broken bulb hung from the socket on the left. Shaking his head at his skittishness, he moved to turn the faucet off and saw a line of red on the back of his hand. It was a small cut, barely deep enough to bleed, and probably a result of the falling glass. He ran his hand under the water to wash away the drying blood when another pop had him instinctively pulling his hands back from the sink.

 

Dean puzzled at the broken remains of the right bulb. It seemed odd that both bulbs would not only blow out at the same time, but explode. Power surge? Shrugging, he turned to grab a paper towel when something dangling in front of the mirror caught his eye. Frowning he reached up, pulled whatever it was loose and held it in his open palm. Eyes wide, he turned off the water and rushed back to the table.

 

* * *

 

“Sam was here!” Dean plopped on the bench seat, recoiling springs bouncing him slightly. The two men stared at him then the bathroom door then back.

 

“Sam was here?” and “How do you know?” overlapped each other as Bobby and John tried to catch up.

 

Smiling, Dean held out the braided leather bracelet he’d found. Bobby’s eyes shone with understanding while John’s still held a hint of confusion. “It’s Sam’s,” He clarified, “I found it wedged behind the mirror in the bathroom. He was trying to leave us a clue.”

 

“You sure it’s his, Dean?” John knew Sam wore a leather bracelet, had seen in every day for years, but never really paid attention enough to be able to pick it out.

 

Dean held out his right arm and draped the bracelet over his wrist next to the matching one he wore. “It’s just like mine.”

 

Bobby extended his hand and rubbed a thumb over the worn leather strip he’d helped Sam make. Sam was trying. He was doing his best to leave them a bread crumb trail to follow. Handing the bracelet back to Dean, the corner of his mouth pulled into a half smile. Kid was pretty damn smart.

 

“We need a map,” John muttered, gaze following the interweaving interstates just visible past the off ramp.

 

Dean jumped up from the seat and walked over to the counter, where a redheaded guy, Matt, was ringing up the college students’ checks. Waiting, he picked up a complimentary Biggerson’s map of the United States with each Biggerson’s location marked – Find Us No Matter Where You Travel! He pulled a picture from his wallet, him and Sam at Bobby’s right after Sam’s 16th birthday, and asked Matt if he’d seen him. Ginger hair flopped back and forth as he shook his head, explaining that his shift had just started a half-hour earlier. His heart sank when he heard that the night crew had just left, relieved by Matt’s morning shift. Walking back to the table he refused to get discouraged. They now knew they were on the right track and that was more hope than he’d felt since finding Sam’s phone.

 

Sitting down, he handed the map over to his father and relayed what the host had told him. John opened the map and folded back the sides to show the Midwest. “Okay. It looks like we have several major interstates all converging here.” He stopped when the waitress returned with their food, pointedly leaning over further than necessary in front of Dean to set his plate down. Not getting the desired reaction, she scowled and moved to check on another table. Bobby glanced over at John, glad to see the promise of a lead adding some color to his old friend’s face, and quirked an eyebrow at Dean’s lack of flirting.

 

John ignored Bobby’s look and moved the map to the side so he could still study it while eating. Cutting a piece of sausage with his fork, he traced the squiggly red, blue and black lines that circled Kansas City. Across from him, Dean ate quickly, wanting to be ready to go once dad pointed him in a direction.

 

A few minutes of quiet eating, peppered occasionally by the scrape of a fork or a thoughtful mumble, John lowered the map. “Okay, here’s the plan. Bobby head west on I-35 and meet up with Elkins in Centennial, Colorado. He’s coming from Nevada and that seems about half way. Jim’s on his way from Minnesota. He’s supposed to rendezvous with Caleb somewhere in Illinois. I’ll have them take I-29 down in case Sam was taken north. Travis and Martin were in Tennessee. I’ll call and have them come in via I-70 to make sure the sonuvabitch didn’t double back east. Dean and I’ll head south on State Road 69 toward Texarkana. That should cover every major road you can take from here in each direction.”

 

In agreement the trio dug into their breakfast with a gusto they wouldn’t have believed possible an hour ago, renewed hope fueling their appetites. Sam was out there fighting and they were going to find him.

 

* * *

 

Sam landed hard on the wood paneled floor, his muscles too weak to brace himself.  The impact jarred his whole body and he bit his lip to stifle the groan that threatened to escape. Tremors wracked his form and he curled up in a ball.

 

“Only thing left now, Samuel, is to sweat out the remaining contamination. Then you’ll be free of him. Then you’ll be pure.” Reece shut the door and locked it. He set the timer for 45 minutes and went back in the house.

 

Sam rolled on his back, the spicy smell of the cedar enveloping him. _Where was he?_ He shivered despite the balminess surrounding him and opened his tired lids. The only light in the room came from a small square window set eye level in the door. The walls and floor were covered in cedar planks, the coppery hue complimenting the warmth of the room. A metal unit against the far wall blew moist heat into the room. A sauna? He was in a sauna?

 

_Only thing left now, Samuel, is to sweat out the remaining contamination._

 

Sam swallowed and winced, his throat tender from Reece’s bruising grip. When the older man’s fingers wrapped around his neck, still warm from the water and slick from the soap, Sam believed he was going to die. The first gulp of breath was sweet relief and left him so dizzy he didn’t have the presence of mind to move away from Reece’s affectionate touch. As he hung by his shackled wrists gasping for air, Sam thought it couldn’t get much worse. He was wrong.

 

_The water stopped and goosebumps erupted over his skin when the shower door opened. Wet feet slapped against the tile and Sam twisted, desperate to keep his tormentor in his sight. Reece moved to the medicine cabinet and pulled a brown bottle with a peeling blue label off one of the shelves. A clear dosing cup was inverted over the cap and Reece filled it with the golden liquid._

 

_“Such a shame they pulled this off the market. It is such a useful medicine.” Reece held the cup up to the light to check the amount._

 

_Sam tried to keep his mouth shut, clenching his teeth and pressing his lips tight. His nostrils were clamped shut by Reece’s determined fingers. Deep and controlled breathing exercises only got you so far and Reece was a patient man. After a few minutes, Sam’s survival instincts overrode his training and his mouth dropped open to bring in the much needed oxygen. His eyes watered from the deprivation and he choked as the syrup was poured down his throat. Glasses of water followed until Sam felt he’d drown in it. Twenty minutes later he wished he had drowned._

 

_He leaned over the open toilet. His arms, still encircled in the manacles but unchained, draped limply over the bowl and his head bowed over the opening as he continued to retch. His stomach burned and his abdominal muscles spasmed from overuse. He’d been vomiting violently for what felt like hours, his form shuddering with dry heaves for the last few episodes. Tears painted tracks down his cheeks and he rested his forehead against the wooden seat. The nausea seemed to be settling, the medicine’s potency waning._

 

_Strong hands curled over his shoulders and for one wild moment Sam thought it was Dean coming to check on him like he always did when Sam was sick._

 

_“There, there, Samuel. It’s almost over. We have to draw out the poison Dean infected you with.”_

 

_His heart sank down to his now empty stomach. Not Dean. Just a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. A cool cloth wiped over his face, clearing away tears and snot. Reece’s hands manipulated him, moving him around the room. Sam was forced down on his back and his tired body refused to protest, the cool tile soothing his overheated skin. He startled when his arms were forced away from this body. They were stretched to his maximum reach and he tried to move them back, but couldn’t. He tilted his head to find his hands secured to two hooks, one in each corner of the shower stall, set in the wall just above the floor. His leg was bent and cold metal wrapped around his ankle, the other leg following right after. The newly applied ankle shackles were locked to hooks at the front and rear of the tiled enclosure. Sam was trapped, supine with knees flexed and legs splayed wide. Yanking on the restraints, Sam once again wondered how many others had Reece done this to? Had those boys in the pictures been subjected to this? Had they been chained to this floor, scared and helpless? Had they survived?_

 

_Reece stepped out of the shower and the raised lip blocked Sam’s view of the other man’s actions. Cabinet doors squeaked and drawers opened and closed while humming filled the air. Fear roiled in his already sensitive stomach. Reece walked back into the shower carrying a hot water bottle with a length of tubing. He hung the bottle over the shower door and the tube fell to coil on the floor next to Sam’s hip._

 

_Realization struck like lightning and Sam forced his uncooperative body to struggle. Reece knelt between his legs and he bucked wildly when a cold lubed finger circled his entrance. A large palm spread over his stomach, pushing him to the tile as a hard object breached the outer ring of muscle. Face red, tears of shame flowed down Sam’s cheeks._

 

_The bottle slowly emptied and Sam felt full, Reece’s hand massaging his abdomen. Sam’s embarrassment flushed down his neck and over his chest. His ears buzzed and he felt light headed, disconnected from his body. He was vaguely aware as the enema did its work and the steps were repeated twice more. Absently he felt the shower spray rinse his lower body and Reece’s voice repeating that he was a good boy._

 

Sam remembered being lifted off the floor and dragged out the door, an autumn breeze ruffling his sweaty bangs. Reece must have brought him to a sauna somewhere behind the cabin. Sam licked his chapped lips. If he had enough energy, he would have snorted at the irony. **_Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink._**

 

He concentrated on breathing, in and out. A buzzer dinged and the unit in the corner shut off. Sam counted his heartbeats and waited for Reece to return. The rhythmic tallying lulled his exhausted body toward sleep. He didn’t dare think this was as bad as it could get.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Calloused hands smoothed over his skin, fingers tickling over ribs on their trek southward. Soft lips blazed a path from shoulder to ear, pausing to nibble and suck the sensitive places that made him writhe and gasp.  He angled his head to the side to encourage further exploration, eyes sliding shut in bliss of their own accord. He sighed happily as a wet kiss just beneath the corner of his jaw sent shivers of desire racing down his spine. His long fingers stretched wide and gathered a handful of sheet, clenching it in a tight fist, to ground his pleasure drunk-body. 

A tongue traced the shell of his ear followed by warm breath that cooled the dampness and mixed with the desire to raise goosebumps along his overheated flesh. “You sure?”

The hand petting his side moved around to his stomach and slowly slid up his bare chest, thumb brushing over the right nipple and eliciting a gasp. “God, yes,” he whispered, panted, unwilling to break the intimate cocoon they’d created. He melted into the warmth outlining his body from behind. 

The large palm ghosted higher, cupping his neck in a loose hold. His heart felt no fear at its presence, only awe. He was safe, he was cherished, he was loved. His head tilted back to rest on the broad shoulder behind him, baring the long length in a display of trust. The fingers tightened slightly, the pressure not intended to harm, but to silently acknowledge the act of faith. 

Lust flowed through his veins like fire, the flames licking his skin from the inside out and heating his blood to a slow boil. His hand traded its hold on the sheet for a grip on the muscled hip pressed flush to his own.

“Please,” he managed, whimpering at the loss when the careful weight around his neck lifted.

“Shhh, I got you.” 

A strong hand rested tenderly on his hip, rubbing calming circles over the joint. A nose slotted into silken tresses and butterfly kisses were peppered along the tender skin at his nape. He refused to be soothed, his body craving the passion like an addict denied his vice. 

Slowly the hand drifted down, lightly following his hamstring and causing the hairs on his thigh to rise to attention at the touch. Reaching the knee, fingers curled behind the bend and maneuvered it to rest higher on the mattress. The weight at his back gently pushed his body forward, using the flexed leg to brace him. Anticipation pooled warm and heavy in his groin and the ache between his legs throbbed impatiently.

The soft click of a cap gave birth to the first seeds of doubt. He concentrated on feeling rather than thinking. A slick digit circled his most intimate place, coaxing the virgin muscle into relaxation, as the kisses moved to the delicate skin under his jaw.  He arched into the touches, his mind hazy with pleasure.

“Will it hurt?” Despite the endorphin induced fog clouding his mind, his worry found a voice.

The tentative touch stilled and the lips pressed to his neck moved away.  He cursed himself internally. The question was one he knew the answer to already, but had slipped out nevertheless. A sigh floated on the air, just before a face nestled into the crook of his neck. He didn’t need to look to know what was going on in the head resting against him. Truth wrestled want, the mind versus the heart. The instinct to protect from any hurt warred with the guilt of inflicting the pain.

“Some,” was the soft reply, spoken like a midnight confession. “First time always does.” A light kiss was pressed to his shoulder and the warmth buried against his neck retreated. The finger stroking his never before touched skin moved away. “We don’t have to, you know. There’s nothing written that says we do. Not now, not ever.”

He turned to look at the face hovering over him, letting his love and trust show in his eyes. He leaned up and captured lush lips in a long, slow kiss, his mouth underlining the message his eyes were conveying. Breaking the kiss, he lay back on the bed and released the hip still in his grasp to guide the lubed hand back to its previous spot.

The ministrations resumed, teasing the tense muscle into loosening but not breaching, while wet, open mouthed kisses rained over his shoulders and back. A wet stripe was licked up the knobs of his spine and a bruise was sucked at the top just below the line of his collar. He smiled at the claiming mark that would be hidden except from the person it belonged to.

Panted breaths ghosted over his ear, words interspersed in a rambling declaration. “Gonna take care of you. Do my best not to hurt you. Never want to hurt you. Always protect you. Never let anything happen to you.” Truth and promise fell heavily between them, a commitment about to be consummated.

Later, as the blood engorged member slid past his well prepared ring and his mind was assaulted by new feelings and sensations, he heard the closely guarded and stingily used words that were whispered into his skin with religious reverence. “I love you, Sammy”. 

His answer was automatic and just as heartfelt. “I love you, Dean.”

* * *

 

 

Sam woke abruptly to the sound of a door slamming in the distance. The dream faded, chased away by the harsh bite of reality. He was lying on the floor of the sauna in the fetal position, naked and shivering. The moist air had lost its heat, a cool, wet blanket against his skin that chilled to the bone. His body felt weak, the effects of Reece’s purification still lingering.

He wondered idly how long he’d been gone and how close Dean and Dad were to finding him. The grey light filtering through the window didn’t provide much of a reference. It could be foggy daybreak or hazy dusk. One day? Two?

He fingered the ring on his hand, the only thing that Reece hadn’t removed. He was oddly thankful to his subconscious for allowing him to relive the memory of his first time rather than replay the horror he’d experienced. This was no different than any other kidnapping. He needed to concentrate on his future freedom instead of his current captivity. Not focus on the here and now, but on the then and when. He could do it. 

He twirled the alarmingly loose ring around his finger, his mind soothed by the repetitive gesture. The door to the sauna opened, but he didn’t turn toward it. He already knew who he’d find.  Footsteps rattled the cedar planked floor, growing louder as they approached. Loafers topped with tan chinos appeared in front of him and he fought the urge to back away. He would not show weakness to this man.

Reece knelt beside him, setting a bottle of water down on the floor so he could slip an arm under Sam’s upper body and lift him. Raising one knee in a genuflect, he leaned Sam’s back against his bent leg and retrieved the water from the floor. He cupped the back of Sam’s head and raised the bottle to his lips.

“Drink, angel. You’ll be dehydrated from the cleansing. It was necessary though. We needed to rid your body of the dark stain Dean left on it.”

Sam felt the edge of the bottle press against his bottom lip and Reece’s damnable hand on his head, but ignored them, eyes focused unseeingly on the wall. He continued to manipulate the ring, his mind blanking out everything but the spin of metal around flesh.

“Samuel, drink!” Reece tipped the bottle, water poured out the spout and down Sam’s face.

Sam didn’t move or flinch. The water ran off his chin, dripping down his chest and over his hands. The cool liquid eased the twirl of the ring and he rotated it faster. 

“Fine, Samuel. You want to be stubborn. You’ll get thirsty…” Reece trailed off. Placing the bottle back on the floor, motion caught the corner of his eye. 

Lifting Sam’s hand, he examined the ring the younger man had been playing with. It was unique; the hand etched pattern on the band intricate and detailed. He tugged on the circle of metal, intending to take it off, and recapture his boy’s attention. He was surprised when Sam’s head snapped in his direction and his fingers curled into a fist preventing the removal. _Well that got a reaction_.

“Who gave you this pretty trinket? Your father?” Nothing. “Dean?” Sam’s eyes narrowed and his fist clenched tighter, the knuckles blanching under the strain. _Bingo!_

“Let me have it, Samuel,” Reece gripped Sam’s wrist tightly and used his other hand to pry the locked fingers open. “We must remove him from your life, Samuel, so we can move on.”

 Sam tried to wrench his arm away, his other hand clawing at Reece’s wrapped around his wrist. He couldn’t let him take away the only piece he had of his brother. He’d left his bracelet in a desperate attempt to be found. He couldn’t lose his ring too.

Their struggles unbalanced them and Sam found himself underneath the older man as he continued to fight. Despite Sam’s training, he was still slight and his lean muscle mass was no match for Reece’s size advantage. Quickly, the teacher had him pinned to the floor with his body and was frantically trying to force the band that started it all from Sam’s finger.

“Enough!” He yelled, control slipping. “Give. It.  To. Me.” Enraged when Sam continued to resist, he drew his arm back. 

The punch caught Sam in the same spot as the hit from the night before. The blow dazed him and while shaking his head to clear the disorientation he felt the ring begin to slide. Renewing his efforts, he wriggled his fingers and hand erratically to keep Reece from getting it past his knuckle. A crack echoed off the wooden walls and Sam didn’t have time to muffle the cry that followed. White hot pain shot from Sam’s finger up his forearm. The ring that was worryingly movable earlier suddenly felt too tight. 

Reece made a disgusted noise and rose to his knees, legs bracketing Sam’s hips. Looking down at Sam with absolute venom in his eyes, he got to his feet and drug Sam up by his hair. Fingers snarled in the long locks, he pulled Sam into the house. Sam stutter-stepped down the hallway, half bent to relieve some of the tension pulling at his hair roots. Reece flung open the door to the bathroom and threw Sam into the counter. His back landed against the edge and left his already suffering body winded. 

“The rules are simple, Samuel. You are mine and you do not damage what’s mine. You have disregarded one and disobeyed the other. I can not ignore this. You broke the rules and there must be consequences.” 

Retrieving a set of keys from his front pocket, Reece unlocked the left cabinet door and pulled a small metal contraption from a plastic bin along with a navy blue towel. He grabbed a still gasping Sam by the arm and shoved him down on the commode, dropping the towel on the floor between Sam’s feet.  He knelt down on it and forced his way into the vee of Sam’s thighs. Sam crossed his hands over his exposed groin and tried to close his legs to deny his captor entrance, but his muscles were too weak to keep him out. 

The shackles from the night before were still locked at the front and back of the shower; however, instead of attaching directly to the hooks, chains now connected the two pieces. Setting the device by his knee, Reece leaned over Sam’s bare leg and picked up the manacle closest then clasped it around Sam’s left wrist. The bound hand immediately went back to maintain his modesty. 

“First things first.” 

Reece grabbed Sam’s right hand, the movement spiking the pain and making his whole hand throb. His broken ring finger was purple and swollen, the puffiness bulging around the sides of the heavily fought for band. Reece moved the device closer and for the first time Sam got a good look at it. The thing looked like a torture device. About the size of an ice cream scoop, it had a similar design with a handle for the torturer’s comfort, but instead of a scoop there was a semi-circular bar that hinged to a piece containing a mini circular saw blade. A thumb crank handle protruded from the center of the blade at a right angle. Sam eyes widened. _What the hell was that for?_

Reece pushed the bar between Sam’s finger and the constricting metal of the ring. The teeth of the saw rested against the band and realization dawned on Sam. A ring cutter. Reece was going to cut off his ring.

“Please, no. No, I’ll be good. I promise. Please don’t cut it.” 

“I think we are past the point that your begging will work on me.” The first turn of the crank left a deep gouge in the silver. Tears pooled in Sam’s eyes. “It’s not like you left me any choice on the matter. With the swelling, the ring is acting like a tourniquet and restricting the blood flow to your finger.” Another turn and the blade was half-way through the metal. “See how pale the tip has become already? If we don’t get the ring off, you could lose your finger.”

Two more turns and the blade clicked against the metal bar underneath the ring. Sliding the cutter free, Reece flipped Sam’s hand over and inserted it again to create a cut on the other side. A tear slid down Sam’s cheek when the blade made it through and hit the bar again, the ring falling from his hand in two halves.

Gathering the cut metal and tossing it in the garbage, Reece grinned at Sam. “Remember, Samuel, I always get my way.”

Reece put the cutter back in the bin under the sink then returned to Sam. He pulled the young man to his feet and guided him to the shower. Sam stood despondently by as his free hand was chained and he was washed in the same methodical manner as the previous night. The throb in his finger the only feeling in his numb body.

The towel was soft and Reece dried his skin thoroughly, his tender touches a contrast to his earlier actions. Reece unhooked the chains and led him to the bedroom. On the pillow was a smaller set of cuffs attached to a chain that looped around one of the headboard’s wooden slats. He placed the new bracelets around Sam’s wrists and removed the bulkier ones. “These are easier to sleep in, not so cumbersome. The chain is in a better location so you’ll have greater movement.”

Sitting next to Sam on the mattress, Reece heaved a sigh. 

“I understand why you were reluctant to remove Dean’s ring. Last night’s cleansing was hard on you and the dehydration left you confused. Most people will revert to what they know when they are unsettled.” He brushed his hand over Sam’s broken finger, watching the wince that contorted his face. “I think this will be sufficient punishment for your disobedience. Next time I will not be so lenient and you will pray for a broken finger. You need to drink something.” 

He reached over for one of the bottles of water on the nightstand.  Lifting Sam’s head, he pressed the edge to Sam’s lips. This time when Sam didn’t open his mouth, Reece reverted to his successful tactic with the medicine. He pinched Sam’s nose shut and poured the water down his throat when his mouth opened. Sam sputtered, coughing up as much as he swallowed. When Reece got most of the water down, he let go of Sam’s nose and set the bottle on the nightstand. 

“Sleep, Samuel,” Reece pushed a damp lock of hair off Sam’s forehead and leaned over to kiss the exposed skin. Sam pushed himself further into the pillow, shuddering at the intimate gesture. “I’ll check on you later.”

Sam stared at the ceiling until he heard the door shut. Looking up at the headboard, he sat up and examined it closer. The slats weren’t thick, a quarter of an inch at the most. Kneeling, he shoved one of the pillows behind the headboard and placed another over the slat the chain looped behind. He wound the linked metal around his forearms to lessen the slack and grasped it like horse reins, his broken finger screaming in protest and the healing scab on his hand tearing free. Taking a deep breath, he kicked the pillow hard. The feathered cushioning muted the crack of the wood breaking.

He gathered up the chain in his hand and walked to the dresser, blood from his newly opened wound running down his fingers. His knees nearly buckled under his weight, dehydration and exhaustion working against him. Digging through the drawers for clothes and finding boxers and a pair of shorts, he dressed quickly. The closet held a variety of shoes in his size and he selected a sturdy pair of sneakers. Grabbing the two full bottles of water on the nightstand, he shoved them in the cargo pockets on his shorts. 

He padded to the door and cracked it open. The shower was running across the hall and Sam said a silent thanks for the bit of good luck. Bolting out of the room, he ran toward the front door. The bathroom door opened as he passed and he cursed. Reece hadn’t gotten in the shower yet. His legs trembled under the strain, but he willed himself faster as footsteps thundered behind him. He threw open the front door and made it to the top of the porch steps when something snagged his ankle. Sam fell forward down the stairs. His hands flew out to protect his face, but left the rest of his body unguarded. His thighs and ribs caught the edge of the steps, the water bottles in his pockets exploding under the force. His chest hurt, but it was the pain in his lower leg still in Reece’s grasp that made him go instantly nauseous. 

Reece released his foot and stood, his voice steely calm. “I’m very disappointed, Samuel.”

Sam lifted up with his arms, pain flaring through his whole body and stealing his breath. His leg shifted and he felt the ends of his shin bone scrape together. He fell to his elbows, retching with nothing in his stomach to expel. Seeing Sam wasn’t able to stand, Reece reached down and picked the boy up bridal style. 

Carrying him back to the house, Reece took him back to the bedroom and set him on the bed. Sam lay very still and tried to breathe through the overwhelming pain. His fingers laced over his shin, the warm blood from his palm leaving a smeared handprint on the swelling skin, and he rocked back and forth trying to keep the tears at bay. 

Reece crossed to the closet and retrieved a box from the top shelf. “I agreed to give you time. Let you work through the lies he told you and realize that you’re safe now, but I can see that my logic was flawed. My hesitancy has failed to give you confidence in our relationship or your place in it. I told you that you were mine, but I never ensured that you believed it. Your uncertainty makes you crave what is familiar even when it is not what is right.” He opened the lid and removed two sets of handcuffs.  His strong fingers encircled Sam’s wrist in a firm grasp that renewed the throbbing in his damaged finger. “I’m sorry, angel. I should have made it clearer.”

The pain in Sam’s finger pulsed with each heartbeat, a steady bass line to the constant melody that was the agony in his leg. The bite of cold metal around his wrist roused Sam from the painful tune zinging through his body. Several successive clicks and Sam knew he’d been secured to the headboard again. Looking up, he shook his arm and rattled the cuffs against the thick corner post. Reece learned quickly. In order to escape, Sam would either have to drag the bed with him or find a hacksaw.

“I’m going to show you, Sam, that you are mine. Remove any doubts you may have that you belong here with me.”

Large hands pushed and prodded him and he gasped when his body rocked forward on his injured leg. He panted, stunned by the shock of fire running from his ankle to his hip. His left arm was pulled from under him and Sam was tugged to the center of the bed, tears pooling unwanted in the corner of his eye as his body screamed at the change in position. Metal touched the skin of his left wrist and his arm was moved to the opposite corner of the king sized bed. Grunting at the stretch, Sam’s mind awakened from the overwhelming pain. He pulled his arm, trying to roll away from the man, his sapped strength doing little against the bruising grip on him. He kicked with his good leg, but his captor was too high on the bed for the appendage to reach him. Desperate, Sam leaned forward and clamped his teeth on the skin of Reece’s arm. Biting hard and releasing in rapid succession, Sam left a line of deep indents and dotted blood.

“Bastard,” Reece snarled. His grip tightened and Sam felt the small bones in his wrist rub together painfully. He continued to bite, moving down the arm to the hand that threatened to snap his wrist. A punch rocked his head into the mattress, but adrenaline softened the affects. The second blow left him dazed and Reece placed a restraining knee between his shoulder blades, holding him down. Mind clearing, Sam heard the snick as his other hand was secured to the other corner post. 

The knee on his back slid down and Reece straddled his ribs. Hands smoothed over his skin, tracing the muscles of his shoulders and upper back.  “So strong, so beautiful, so perfect.”  Wet lips pressed against the round of one shoulder then the other.

Sam shuddered and bucked against the weight pressing him down. His chest, still sore from the fall on the stairs, ached at the added bulk.  The erratic movements jarred his body, amping up the hum of pain coursing through him. He no longer recognized his individual injuries, only the system wide agony. 

A throaty chuckle echoed in his ear. “And all mine.”

The pressure on his back disappeared and Sam gulped down a deep breath, unaware that he’d been unable to. Reece reached into the box and pulled three additional sets of cuffs from the cardboard. A hand worked its way under Sam and he felt the waistband of his shorts loosen and the zipper give way. His shorts and boxers were pulled roughly down his legs, his stomach rebelling at the jostling of his injured leg.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Sam gasped, panting around the pain. His bruised ribs ached with each inhale.

“Shhh, Samuel.” Threading his fingers through the silver loops, he ran the cold metal down Sam’s exposed skin – a meandering trail from his back, over his buttocks and along the inside of his thigh – then grabbed Sam’s uninjured leg. 

Panic ran cold down his spine, stoking his fight or flight reflex. He knew what was coming, had known from the moment Reece placed the metal ring around his left wrist. Adrenaline shot through his veins and he kicked wildly, the blessed hormone dulling the pain as he shifted his broken leg. Reece lost his hold and Sam was able to connect two solid blows before his leg was pinned down. He pumped his leg, frantic to get free, frantic to prevent what he knew was going to happen, but a slap to his broken leg stilled him. A hard yank followed by unforgiving metal and his left leg was restrained. He screamed when his right leg was manipulated and a few clicks later he was cuffed face down, spread eagle on the bed.

Reece moved back to Sam’s head and stroked his bruising cheek. “Why must you force me to punish you?” His voice was soft and heart-broken. He leaned over and placed a tender kiss to the reddened skin. Stepping back, he quickly shed his clothes, the fabric puddling around his feet. Sam pressed his face into the pillow, eyes closed against the rapidly revealed skin. 

Moving back to the side of the bed, Reece wound his fingers in Sam’s hair and pulled tight. “Is this how he showed his love for you? Do you need the pain to know the pleasure? Hmmm, my angel?” Untangling his fingers, he grabbed Sam’s jaw and turned his face toward him and kissed him, sucking and biting on Sam’s lips seeking a response.

Sam turned his head away from his captor’s intimate touch, the man’s nails raking over the skin on his neck. He jerked at his bonds, testing their strength, while trying to keep his injured leg as still as possible. Reece had connected the last two sets of handcuffs together to give Sam more slack on that leg, but it those few inches were minimal when struggling. “Dean never hurt me. You don’t hurt the ones you love,” Sam bit out, his voice thick with the unshed tears he’d swallowed.

Reece trailed his fingers over Sam’s skin, tracing each scar as he came across it. “Your body tells a different story, angel. Don’t worry. I can give you what you want, love you the way you need.” His fingers drifted to the cleft of Sam’s ass, parting the cheeks and delving down the crease.

Sam’s body and mind went crazy. His earlier knowledge hadn’t prepared him for the reality. He pulled at his fetters, heedless of the pain and further injury he was inflicting on his body. “No! Don’t! Please! God, no!”  Ignoring his pleas, a dry finger roughly forced its way where only Dean belonged and Sam cried out at the pain of intrusion and sting of guilt. He’d given his body to Dean willingly and now this man was taking that gift forcefully. 

“I’ll make you hurt so good, angel.”

Sam bit the pillow as a second finger followed the first. Burning pain, as sensitive tissues were torn, ripped through his body and he ground the material between his clenched teeth. He twisted his body trying to escape, the joints of his arms and leg screaming with each attempt. A few perfunctory jabs and the fingers left him. Sam opened his mouth to gasp for air, tears streaming unbidden down his face. 

The nightstand drawer slid open and Sam heard the items within being shuffled. Reece tore a condom from the line of packets and pushed the drawer shut. 

“Once we have you tested, this will no longer be an issue.” Reece held the white foil packet up for Sam to see.

Sam tugged weakly on the cuffs, his adrenaline high waning as his body reached exhaustion, the level too much for too long for him to maintain. He heard the snap of rubber as Reece applied the condom. 

“These condoms are lubed, but I can get some that aren’t if you prefer it more…raw.” The mattress dipped between his spread legs and he felt the blunt tip of Reece’s member against his entrance.

“No! Please, no. Don’t!” Sam repeated his pleas and writhed on the bed, the cuffs clattering on the wooden corner posts. He shifted his hips to dislodge the foreign presence. His preparation had been too hasty and not nearly thorough enough. Even with the recent increase in his sex life, Sam was still new to penetration and Dean always took extra care to make sure that he was completely ready. He was never willing to hurt Sam more than the pleasure would outweigh. A strong hand slammed down on the small of his back while the other curled around his hip and held him firmly. 

Reece thrust hard, fully seating himself in one move. Sam felt ripped open and split wide. The already abused tissue lanced pain up his spine that stole the breath from his heaving lungs. Giving no quarter, Reece pulled out and rammed back in hard. Sam’s body spasmed against his restraints, the calf of his broken leg stretching painfully without the length constraint the bone provided. The low level of pain he’d been riding crescendoed and he heard screaming. Darkness closed around his vision as his mind sought refuge from the pain. As the blackness veiled his vision, he realized he was the one screaming. One name on repeat.  

 


	8. Chapter 8

Dean’s heart leapt into his throat when his father’s cell phone vibrated against his leg. John had fallen asleep, succumbing to his exhaustion, and Dean had turned the radio on for company. Afraid the music would mask the ringtone, he’d silenced the phone and set it on the seat next to him. Picking it up, he turned down the radio and nudged the older man dozing against the window with it.

“Hmmm, what?” John straightened in his seat, confused.  He blinked at the buzzing phone in Dean’s hand then quickly snatched it. “Shouldn’t have let me fall asleep,” he grumbled, flipping the phone open. “This is John.”

Dean shrugged, eyes focused on the blacktop before him and ears focused on the conversation beside him.

“Whatcha’ got, Travis?” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “Where?” He sat straighter in the seat, his hand dropping to his thigh. “That’s not too far from where Dean found Sam’s bracelet.” 

Dean cut his eyes to his father, eyebrows raised. Had Travis and Martin found Sam? Did they know where he was?

Seeing the questions in his son’s eyes, John waved at him to wait. He squinted at a passing road sign. “We’re coming up on Webb City in...” he looked over at Dean.

“Missouri.”

“In Missouri. We can be there in a few hours. Just sit on it til then. We’ll call when we get close.” John snapped his phone closed and rubbed his eyes. “They found a demon in Blue Springs. That’s only about 40 minutes east of where you found Sam’s bracelet. Travis and Martin deal more with creatures. They’re not confident with interrogating demons.” He pulled the map from the glove box and reviewed it quickly. “Take 71 North.” Doing some fast calculations, he refolded the map. “We should be there in about two hours.”

“You think this demon took Sam?” Dean flicked the turn signal and eased his way to the exit ramp, following the signs pointing the way to US 71N. 

“Worth checking out. It’s close to his last known whereabouts. It’d be a big coincidence.” John sniffed the near empty Styrofoam cup of coffee he’d tucked between the seat and the door earlier. Deeming it still drinkable, he took a long gulp.

“Coincidence,” Dean echoed, lips turning down in a frown.

“What?” John pointed to the turn off for the highway.

“I’ve been thinking. What if Bobby was right?” Dean accelerated moving into the stream of cars on the four lane road. While finishing their breakfast, Bobby had revisited his concern that they were overlooking the more mundane possibility of a human taking Sam. Like his father, Dean dismissed the notion – Sam could fight off a human – but as the miles passed with nothing but static-filled music and his father’s snores, Dean had time to think it through more thoroughly. He kept coming back to his long held belief that people were crazy. Seeing his father’s quirked eyebrow, he continued. “The stalker calls, the tip to CPS…Do demons even use phones? Now that Bobby mentioned it, the whole thing just seems very human to me.”

“Dean, do you think your brother wouldn’t be able to defend himself against a person?” John turned in the seat to face his son. If anyone knew Sam’s capabilities it was Dean. He’d taught Sam everything the kid knew.

“Of course not, Dad. But I also know Sam. He likes to believe that people are basically good. It might have made him hesitate longer than he should have and they got the jump on him.” 

John straightened in his seat and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “So you think Sam dropped his guard? While you were hustling pool?”

“No.” The answer was so obvious it slipped out without a thought. Sam would never let his guard down when Dean was hustling pool. Conning people out of money had a tendency to turn dangerous fast and Sam took his duty as watchdog very seriously. He’d never let anything happen to Dean. It was one of the reasons the hustle worked so well. Dean was relaxed and carefree, knowing he was covered.  “Blue Springs it is.”

“Let me know when you want me to drive.” John dropped his head back to the headrest and closed his eyes. 

 

* * *

 

A car backfired and Bobby jumped in his seat, wide awake. After leaving the Winchesters he’d driven for a while then pulled over at a rest stop to catch a few hours of sleep before continuing on to meet Elkins in Centennial. Stretching, he looked at his watch and groaned. He’d slept for four hours. “Balls!” Feeling a pressing need, he got out and made his way to the small building at the center of the area. A quick trip inside then he had to get back on the road. If he sped he might be only an hour late meeting Daniel.

The wind picked up and the smaller debris scattered around the parking lot was lifted on the currents. Something landed on his shoulder and he turned to find a pink plastic tassel caught on his jacket. He picked it off, remembering when he’d found a baton with tasseled ends in Sam’s duffle bag. When asked about it, Sam flushed red and murmured something about it being a Christmas present from Dean. Smiling, he let go and watched the plastic string float on the breeze until it vanished in the tree line.

The bathroom was empty except for a janitor scrubbing graffiti off the mirror. The smell of ammonia was heavy in the air giving Bobby the impression that the guy had been at it for a while. He nodded a hello and made his way to the urinals lining the back wall. 

“Stupid hairless apes with nothing better to do.” Bobby turned his head to the side at the hissed words wondering if the man was talking to him. A few more curses at the youth of today and Bobby realized the man was just grumbling out loud. “This shit is sticky.” Rolling his eyes, Bobby zipped up and flushed. 

As he approached the sink, the man moved the rag once more over the mirror and stepped back. “That’s as good as it’s gonna get.” Giving Bobby a tight smile, the man grabbed his bottle of cleaner and left. 

Washing his hands, he wrinkled his nose at the smell of cleaner that was stronger up here. He shook the excess water from his fingers and snatched a paper towel from the dispenser, glancing up at the man’s handiwork while he dried his hands. Whatever the kids had used was gone but the outline where it had dried thicker was still visible. Studying it, he stepped closer for a better look. 

On impulse, he leaned over the sink and blew hot air across the design.  The condensation settled over the pattern, gathering over the thicker outline to make it darker. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

 

* * *

 

John wiped his knife off on an old shop rag and picked up the flask of holy water. He poured the blessed liquid over the blade then dipped it to the hilt in a bowl of salt. Dean followed suit, Sam’s bracelet sliding down his forearm to rest against his own.  Father and son approached the demon – wearing the meatsuit of a plump grandmother complete with _World’s Best Nana_ sweatshirt – the older from the left and the younger the right. They worked systematically, each consecutively unanswered question earning a progressively deeper cut while every sneered comment received a shallow stab to soft tissues. Punches interspersed their knife work, leaving a roadmap of bruises across wrinkled skin. Salt was forced down the woman’s throat only to be washed away by holy water, the human body swallowing out of instinct and the demon spirit writhing in agony.

Travis and Martin watched from the corner of the room. They’d heard the rumors about John Winchester, had had the opportunity to see him in action a few times, but never like this. Usually, it was intimidating to witness, but this was a whole new level. The older man cut and hit and stabbed without conscience, without remorse. The host wasn’t even a consideration in his mind. The vehemence he used to fuel the search for his wife’s killer had found a new outlet.

 “Where’s my son, bitch?” John snarled, stepping back. It was Dean’s turn and he watched his oldest hover his newly re-salted knife over the woman’s meaty thigh.

“John, is that any way to speak to your elders?” The demon tssked him in her host’s motherly tone, eyes flashing black. “What would your dear, sweet Mary think of the example you’re setting for her sons?”

“Answer the man,” Dean’s voice was cold and harsh, emotions held in check. He fisted the knife and punched the woman across the face, refraining from pulling the punch at the last minute. Right now she wasn’t a grandmother, she was a demon. A demon that might know where Sam was and that was all that mattered. He raised his knife, the tip lifting the woman’s chin to look him in the eye. “Tell. Me.”

If John was intimidating, Dean was downright scary. Both Travis and Martin had known the boy since was just a kid learning to shoot cans off the fence at Caleb’s. He was the perfect hunter. He followed orders without complaint or exception and had instincts that rivaled his father’s. It was evident to anyone that Dean was overprotective of Sam. Working with the Winchesters over the years, hunters soon realized that you didn’t mess with Dean’s Sammy. Sam was the heart that tempered Dean’s will and, without him, the two hunters were getting a glimpse at the cruelty Dean Winchester was capable of, the depths to which he was willing to go. Most of the woman’s larger cuts and deeper stabs had been from Dean’s blade. Alone, each man was a force to be reckoned with. Together, they were unstoppable. Martin met Travis’ eye. He almost felt sorry for whatever had taken Sam. Almost.

A phone ringing vibrated off the metal walls of the warehouse. Dean’s eyes flicked to his father, but his knife never wavered from beneath the woman’s jowls. John looked at the caller ID then flipped the phone open. 

“Bobby?”

Travis and Martin moved closer to the senior Winchester hoping Bobby was calling with good news. Dean returned his attention to the woman tied in the chair before him. “Answer the question, bitch. Where is my brother?”

“I don’t know where he is, but I wish I did. I can smell him on you and his innocence is intoxicating. Of course, little Sammy isn’t purely innocent, now is he?” The demon purred, raking her eyes over Dean.

Dean’s hand flew, the back connecting with the woman’s chubby cheek and splitting her lip. “Don’t call  him that! Now, tell me where he is.”

 She smiled, tongue peeking out to lick the blood pooling in the cut. “You know Dean. Just ‘cause we invented evil, don’t mean we have it trademarked. No _demon_ touched your brother. We’ve a strict hands off policy on that particular Winchester. Now, you two, on the other hand, you it’s open season on.” She smiled lasciviously, licking her lips. “And, hell, I’d love to get my hands on you.”  

“Dean!” His father’s voice stopped the second hit mid-swing. “Bobby’s got some news.”

Dean laid his knife on the crate they were using as a table. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he moved over to his father.  John pressed the speaker button on his phone and held it out between them.

“Okay, Bobby, what’ve you got?”

“Dean, that tattoo on your back…” Bobby’s gruff voice crackled over the line, the metal roof of the warehouse interfering with the signal.

“Tattoo?” John interrupted, raising surprised eyebrows at his son.

“Not now, Dad,” Dean’s voice tired, but firm.

Bobby cleared his throat. “That tattoo, it’s Celtic, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did Sam know about it?”

“He designed it,” Dean noticed an odd look on his father’s face, but decided to ignore it for the time being. They’d wage the Battle of the Tattoo later. 

“So, he made it up? He didn’t see it in a book or on tv?”

“No, Bobby,” Dean’s growl carried his impatience across the line, “Why the twenty questions?”

“I’m at a rest stop along I-35 about an hour south of Kansas City and found your tattoo on the mirror,” he hesitated, “From how hard it was for the janitor to clean off, I’d say it was in blood.”

“You sure?” Dean walked over and picked up his knife, using the last of the holy water to rinse the salt and blood from the blade.

“Yeah. It looks like he was brought this way. How far out are you guys?” Bobby climbed back into his Pinto, scratching his bearded chin.

“About two hours.” John opened his leather bound journal, thumbed through the pages to an entry near the back and handed it to Dean. “Let us finish up here and we’ll head that way.” He watched his oldest stalk over to the tethered woman, words of Latin flowing uncomfortably from his lips. Sam was the one with an ear for dead languages. 

“You want me to stick around here or keep heading to Centennial?” Bobby started the car and shifted it into drive.

“Call Elkins. See if he can come to you. Travis and Martin said Rufus was finishing up something in Lincoln and might be able to help. You know, Ebony and Ivory together again. Start checking out the nearby towns. We’ll be right behind you.” John ducked as a cloud of black smoke swirled in the air overhead and fled through a ventilation shaft in the ceiling.

“Call me when you get close and I’ll let you know where I am.” Bobby ended the call and pulled back onto the interstate heading west. He scrolled through his contact and pressed SEND.

 

* * *

 

 

Reece pressed a kiss to the bite marks he’d left on Samuel’s shoulder and pulled free of the warm body below him. He smoothed his hands across the long expanse of tanned flesh, fingertips tracing the lean muscles and possessively caressing the scratch marks his lust had caused. His lover’s body remained still, not acknowledging the touch, and he frowned.

“Samuel?” 

He turned Sam’s face toward him, looking into the features he’d fallen in love with for the first time since losing himself in the feel of Samuel’s body. The boy’s eyes were closed and his face lax, his breathing slow and even. Reece smiled. Overwhelmed by the passion, Samuel had surrendered and lost consciousness. Pride coursed through him. He’d never made someone black out from desire before. 

He slid a hand between Samuel and the mattress and was surprised to find only soft flesh and dry sheets. The pride swelling his chest morphed into fondness. Samuel was too kind to him. He had been more concerned with giving pleasure to receive any before his lapse of consciousness. 

Rising he sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand through the silky sable locks of his young lover, the strands slipping through his fingers on each pass. Samuel was truly the one. Perfect for him in ways that the others hadn’t been. Samuel was smart and funny, athletic and stunning, but most of all he’d just proved that he was a selfless lover as well. Everything that Reece was looking for in a partner. Yes, this was going to work out well. 

Scooping the hair back from his neck, Reece placed a small kiss there before standing to retrieve his clothes from the floor. Dressing quickly, he checked Samuel’s injured leg. The skin was stretched tight over the swollen extremity and was mottled dark purple and black. He knew it must be painful, but Samuel had to learn his place and Reece had discovered long ago that pain was the best teacher of all. Pulling the key ring from his front pocket, he unlocked the cuff around Samuel’s ankle to allow him to move the leg in his sleep without further damaging it. He covered his naked lover with a blanket from the closet and left the room, shutting the door quietly as he exited. 

In the kitchen, he took a quick inventory of their supplies and made a list of items they needed from the store. The local grocer was a family owned business that had served the community since before the Depression and still delivered to the nearby homes. Set back the way it was, his cabin was on the outskirts of their delivery area, but he tipped well so they usually made an exception. Calling the number, he placed his order and moved to the laundry room where he’d discarded Samuel’s old clothes. Picking up the shredded remains of Samuel’s former life, he patted the pockets of the jeans to make sure they were empty before he got rid of them. 

A lump in his back pocket revealed a simple, brown leather wallet, worn along the edges from age and use. Dropping the jeans, Reece opened the billfold and thumbed through the contents. He found the typical items one would expect – driver’s license, student ID and a few dollars – but it was the cards tucked in the back that were the most intriguing. Samuel had driver licenses, professional forgeries from the looks of them, in several names and each showing him at a different age. Spreading them out on the washing machine, he examined each one. Samuel Efframian was 18 and from Tallahassee, Florida. Samuel Anderson was 17 from Buffalo, New York. Samuel Tyler was 16 hailing from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. 

It was Samuel Young’s license that made his anger rise. This Samuel was 19 and lived in San Francisco, California. That bastard had given Samuel an ID so they could pose as a married couple. Slamming his hand down, the metal top of the appliance rattled and the laminated cards bounced with the reverberation, sliding over the sides. It was a good thing he got Samuel away from that crazed maniac. 

As he started to close the wallet, a frayed edge of paper caught his attention. Behind the credit card slots, there was a pocket that opened toward the center fold. Pulling the paper out, he realized it was a picture, cut down to fit in that spot. Smiling at him in Kodak color was Sam with his arm looped around Dean’s waist. They stood in front of a dingy fireplace, books and papers stacked haphazardly on the furniture and floor around them. They looked happy, comfortable in the cluttered space. Flipping the picture over, an unfamiliar scrawl identified the photo.

Dean and Sammy

Bobby’s House

May 2, 1999

Crumpling the picture in a closed fist, he gathered Samuel’s ruined clothes and walked out the side door that led to the backyard. Shoving the clothes and the crumpled picture into the fire pit, he retrieved the lighter from its place along the edge of the stone circle. A flick of his wrist and an orange flame appeared at the end. A few points of contact later, Sam’s clothes were alight, flames crawling along the fabric and multiplying as each fiber fueled them further. The photo curled in on itself as the fire blackened the edges and marred the image of joy. 

_Burning bridges_ Reece thought as he went back in the house to check on his Samuel.

  


	9. Chapter 9

Every part of Sam hurt, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Taking inventory, he focused past the whole body hurt to the bright points of agony radiating from his face, hand, leg and… Oh God! Squeezing his eyes shut, he turned his face into the pillow and fought to control his breathing. He would not let that bastard see him break. 

Loud knocking had him forcing his right eye open, the left swollen shut from Reece’s punches. The door to the bedroom was half-way open but the doorway was empty. Working through the confusion and beginning to think he imagined the sound, the knocks came again, floating to him down the hall. 

There was movement in the house and then the sound of hinges creaking. Sam could hear two voices – Reece’s baritone mixing with a bass that held the lilting tone of youth. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tenor was comfortable and jovial. Someone was at the door. Shifting on the mattress as much as his tethered limbs would allow, Sam sucked in a deep, painful breath.

“Help! Please help me! Help! I’m tied up back here! Help me!”

Drawing in another lungful of air, Sam could hear the voices raising and scuffling. 

“Help! Somebody, please! Help me! I’m back…” A loud bang cut through his cries and forced his body to jolt on the bed, jarring his injuries.

Heavy footsteps came down the hall, a glimmer of hope bubbled up in Sam that it was the visitor to his rescue. His heart sank when his dark haired captor entered, his grey eyes shining with hellfire. Red drops were splattered across his white button up shirt, a moving Jackson Pollock coming closer to the side of the bed. Sam tore his eyes from the macabre art to see the silver 9mm Reece held loosely in his right hand. 

“I warned you this would happen, Samuel. That poor boy didn’t need to die, but you wouldn’t listen.” Reece crossed to the closet and pulled a crisply pressed blue t-shirt from the rack. Reece set the handgun on the dresser and began to disrobe.

Watching the man unbutton his shirt, Sam’s stomach churned. “Y-you killed him?”

Hanging the ruined shirt over the doorknob, Reece tugged on the clean one. “You forced me to. Your screaming made him suspicious. He wanted to see you, talk to you. You’re mine, Samuel. No one is allowed near you. Now I have to clean up the mess you made me make.”

Tears burned at the edges of Sam’s eyes. He’d caused a man’s death. _A boy,_ according to Reece. 

Reece moved to the nightstand where the box that housed the handcuffs sat. Shuffling through the contents, Reece removed a red ball with straps hanging from the side. Sam struggled against his bonds, pain wracking his form as he thrashed on the bed. Reece’s knee came down hard between his shoulder blades, putting pressure on his hurt ribs, and Sam gasped. Cold, nimble fingers clamped around his jaw and Sam tried to turn his face, but the grip was too strong. 

“Samuel, talking is a privilege. One that you will have to re-earn.” Thumb digging into the soft skin at the hinge of Sam’s jaw, Reece forced his mouth apart and fit the gag between his teeth. A forearm laid across to the back of the head pushed his face into the pillow and Sam could feel the leather straps tighten over his cheeks and neck.

“Now, I have to go take care of our little friend. I want you to think about what you did and when I get back we’ll start your punishment.” 

Reece grabbed hold of Sam’s broken leg and pulled mercilessly on it, silently enjoying the muffled shouts and cries of his boy, until he could clasp the handcuff around it again. The swelling was almost more than the manacle could handle, the end only clicking once before it was snug against the skin. Patting Sam’s foot, he smiled at the pain furrowing Sam’s brow. “Extra insurance.”

 

* * *

 

Reece moved to the door and snatched the shirt hanging on the knob. Taking one last look at his bound and gagged boy, he went down the hallway toward the front of the house and the body lying in a puddle of blood at the door. The kid was handsome in his own way, tall and fair-haired with a lithe build that, like his Samuel, hinted at muscular potential. He had a happy face with pleasing features – when a hole didn’t mar the freckled skin of his forehead. 

Sighing, Reece went to the kitchen for supplies to start on his clean-up. Slipping out of his clothes, he pulled the kid into a sitting position and put a garbage bag over the head, duct taping around the neck to secure it. He carried the boy to the delivery van, unceremoniously throwing him in the back and covering him with an old blanket he found there. Back in the house, he mopped up the pooled blood on the floor with his ruined shirt before scrubbing the area down with a scrub brush. He repeatedly cleaned the patch of floor until the suds no longer bubbled pink. Quickly he took the bloody shirt to the fire pit and set it ablaze on top of the ashes of Samuel’s old clothes. He rinsed his cleaning bucket and brush then filled the former with bleach and dropped the latter in it to soak. Lastly, he jumped into the shower and meticulously washed away any traces of the overly helpful kid.

Emporia was the next biggest town, only about an hour away, and the drive was calming to his nerves. When Samuel started screaming, the delivery boy – the Good Samaritan that he was – wanted inside to help. He didn’t hesitate, just as he’d told Samuel he wouldn’t. He retrieved the gun from the holster hanging under his coat by the door and pulled the trigger. He’d always been an excellent marksman, trained by his father from an early age, and the do-goody boy didn’t stand a chance. He was dead before he hit the floor. Dear old dad would have been proud.

Leaving the van hidden a mile outside of town, he jogged the remaining distance and found the nearest used car lot. Thirty minutes and three thousand dollars in cash later, he pulled away from Kansas Kar Korral in a 1975 Buick Skylark. It smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and was in desperate need of an overhaul, but it had what mattered most, a large trunk. After switching his load from the conspicuous van to the car, he drove to Gavin’s Hardware for some much needed equipment.

The graying man behind the register, either Gavin himself or one of his descendants, raised an eyebrow at the variety of items that he placed on the counter – rope, plastic sheeting, lighter fluid and shovels – and made an off-hand joke about burying a body. Reece laughed good-naturedly and handed the man his payment. “It looks that way, doesn’t it?” Laughing again, he gathered his new purchases and walked out the door with a genial wave good-bye. 

Tossing everything in the trunk next to a blanket wrapped bundle, Reece shut the lid and paused when a conversation peaked his interest.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not hungry,” Dean grumbled as he slammed the passenger door shut. Wincing, he ran his fingers over the front fender in apology.

“You need to eat something. Dean, you’re running on fumes. You haven’t slept and you’ve barely eaten since Sam disappeared. You’ll be no good to anyone if you don’t start taking better care of yourself.” John stopped his son in front of the plate glass window of Doris’ Diner – Best Eats in Emporia.

“We shouldn’t be stopping. He’s counting on us to find him, Dad. I won’t let him down. I can’t.” Dean was as close to pleading as his father had ever seen him.

“Dean,” John placed a hand on his shoulder and waited until scared green eyes looked up, “We _will_ find your brother.” He slid his hand up and cupped the side of Dean’s neck, shaking him gently. “And when we do, Sam is going to need you. He’s going to need his big brother, not some worn out, half-starved shell. We’re only stopping long enough to eat then we’ll get right back to it.”

Nodding his head in agreement, Dean noticed a man standing beside an old Buick watching them intently. There was something familiar about the man, but Dean’s tired mind couldn’t place him. They’d met so many people over the years, they started to blur after a while. Realizing he’d been caught eavesdropping, the man hurried to the driver’s side and climbed in the vehicle. Following his father into the diner, Dean looked back at the retreating taillights of the car and shook off the nagging part of his mind that insisted the stranger was important somehow. The only thing important was finding Sam.

 

* * *

 

_Dad?! Brother?!_

The words kept rolling through Reece’s mind as he dug the delivery boy’s shallow grave. 

_Chunk_. Dad. _Chunk_. Brother. 

It would have been easy to fool himself into believing that the man with Dean was Dean’s father and not Samuel’s, except for the fact that he had been over Samuel’s file at the school so many times he had it memorized – including the ID of the registering parent. John Winchester may have gained some gray hair and age lines since his photo was taken, but it was unmistakably him. 

Dean had bed his own brother and Samuel had willingly allowed it. If nothing else had become clear in the last few days it was that Samuel Winchester could defend himself. He’d fought through injury and exhaustion at every turn. If he didn’t want his brother’s – Reece’s lips curled in revulsion – advances then he could have easily rejected him. 

No, it was time to come to terms with the fact that his Samuel wasn’t the innocent, pure creature he believed him to be. Of all his companions, Samuel was the greatest disappointment. A devil sent to him with an angel’s face, tempting him with the perfection he so desperately sought. 

As his mind swirled in anger and disappointment something dark and twisted churned in his gut. Images of Samuel on his knees for his brother, his brother pinning him to the counter, his brother ordering him around flashed through his mind. Unconsciously, he dropped his hand to massage the ache in groin and recoiled in surprise at finding his member half-hard. 

Curious, he thought about the look of passion on Samuel’s face as he was rimmed by his brother, the mewls and cries falling from though lush lips as his brother tongued him to orgasm, those same lips stretched wide sucking his brother to completion. Pulling over to the shoulder, Reece’s fingers scrambled over his button and zipper, frantically reaching into his boxers to retrieve his engorged sex. 

The images came faster, a complete play-by-play of his voyeuristic glimpse into his Samuel’s depravity. The car was filled with the sound of his panting and the pre-come slicked glide of skin against skin. As he remembered the look of ecstasy on Samuel’s face as he came untouched from his brother’s ministrations, warmth trickled over his own hand. Staring hazily out the windshield at the forest lining the road, a new thought struck Reece.

Maybe he didn’t need someone to lighten his darkness, maybe he needed someone to revel in it with him. He’d known from the moment he met Sam that he was the one. He just didn’t realize he needed to alter his idea of perfection.

 

* * *

 

Sam had struggled himself into exhaustion and had little to show for the effort. Screaming had only caused him to choke on his own saliva and tugging at the cuffs had worn the skin of his wrists and ankle raw. Body trembling from pain, he lay on the bed panting and for the first time wondered if Dean would find him.

The sun had reached its zenith as some point and was now quickly making its descent, night pressing against the rose colored sky awaiting its turn. As the celestial guard changed, the room grew increasingly colder and deepened his quivering into body wracking shivers. At some point he must have dozed, waking in the purple dimness of twilight at the sound of a slamming door.

Reece entered the room, his shirt disheveled and pants stained. He moved with purpose toward the bed, his gray eyes stormy and features wild. Whip quick, his hand shot out to encircle Sam’s throat, fingers fitting over the discolored evidence of his prior show of control. The smell of sex assaulted Sam when Reece leaned down, mouth brushing his ear as he spoke.

“I know your dirty little secret, Samuel. The dark blot on your soul that no amount of sweat or medicine or enemas can ever rid you of.”

Sam’s mouth went dry, the fingers around his neck tightening. He desperately tried to gasp around the gag in his mouth and draw in the air his body was being denied. He turned a pleading, confused eye, the other swollen shut, to his captor, not sure which truth Reece had uncovered. 

“Save your false innocence for a fool that will believe it. I know about Dean, Samuel. _There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy._ ” 

The whispered poetry passed warm against his cheek and Sam shuddered. His heart leapt into his constricted throat and a cold sweat broke out over his body as fear shook his frame. “e’n?”

“Mmhmm, Dean.” He raked his teeth over the hard line of the younger man’s jaw. “Your boyfriend, your lover…your _brother_. Such aberrant behavior wasn’t what I was expecting from you, Samuel, but don’t worry. I seem to find your licentiousness even more intoxicating than your purity. You’re going to be my dirty boy, aren’t you Samuel?” He ripped the gag from Sam’s mouth and pulled it down past his chin to hang loosely around his neck, the clasp yanking locks of hair out by the roots in the process. His lips crashed down hard on Sam’s, tongue forcing its way past chapped lips and stealing his panting breaths until Sam thrashed to break free. Biting down hard on the invading muscle, Sam silently cheered at the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth.

Reece pulled back, spitting curses and blood. The unforgiving digits on Sam’s neck tensed and dark spots danced along the edge of his vision. The fist came fast and fell with unerring precision on the puffy flesh of his already abused eye, skin splitting and bone breaking. The crack reverberated in his ears as white hot pain pin-balled through his skull. 

“Still feisty after everything,” Reece marveled, “I’m going to have so much fun breaking you.” One handed, he tugged roughly on the gag until it slid back over Sam’s jaw and cheeks and forced it back into Sam’s mouth. 

The pressure on his throat lifted and sweet air filled his deprived lungs. His cheeks puffed out as coughs forced their way past the rubber ball, breaths stuttering as the movement shifted his injured body and amped the ache in his face. Sam felt the cuffs on his ankles release. Kicking out with his good leg resulted in blinding pain up his bad as his captor punched the broken section. 

“Try that again Samuel and I’ll wrench it off.”

Reece’s words barely penetrated through the pain, the nerves of his body rapid firing currents of agony throughout his system. Lost in the excruciating sensation, Sam never registered his arms falling free of their restraints. A hand twisting in his hair revived him enough to stumble forward off the bed as he was dragged to the door. The first step on his broken leg had his body buckling to the floor, but his tormentor didn’t let up and simply pulled his across the floor by his sweat tangled hair. Sam’s hands automatically came up, scabbed palm and broken finger throbbing in protest, to wrap around the hand tugging him along, relieving some of the pressure on his scalp. The foot of his uninjured leg scrambled against the floor seeking purchase. His body rebounded off the door jamb, his bruised ribs meeting the casing with a hard thud. 

A few feet into the hallway, the harsh tugging stopped and he breathed a sigh of relief, opening his one working eye to see where they were. Reece stood in front of the padlocked door, fingers digging into the front pocket of his pants. He pulled his key ring free and, one-handed, opened the metal lock, unwilling to relinquish his hold on Sam’s hair. Pushing the door open, he flicked on a light revealing a set of descending wooden stairs.

“Down here is the dungeon, Samuel.” He tightened his grip in Sam’s hair and turned his head to peer down the stairs to the darkness at the bottom. “I use it to punish bad boys. You’re a bad boy, Samuel. My bad, dirty boy.” He stroked Sam’s face adoringly with his free hand, his cock twitching at the words.

Sam shook his head, flinching from Reece’s loving touch, hair pulling painfully with the motions. The gag muffled his fervent denial to whimpered grunts. A hard pull on his hair had his body moving through the open door and he yelped in surprise when the floor dropped out from underneath him. His shock was short lived when he collided with the first step, crying out at the impact. It was repeated over and over again, no part of his body spared from the jolting effects. 

 There was no reprieve, no rest…just pain. All thought was driven from his mind leaving him to wallow in the all-encompassing anguish. Sam lost track of time, lost track of himself, mind only periodically surfacing past the pain. His awareness of his surroundings came to him in snapshots, quick glimpses during the moments he forced his eye to open and brief touches when his body could register the sensation. 

A windowless room lit by a muted amber bulb. A hard cold table beneath him. Objects hanging on the wall. Hard steel biting into his ankles and wrists. A table of colors near his head. A tattooed forearm, an eagle perched on a globe superimposed over a diagonal rope twined anchor.

Sam’s mind snatched hold of the image like a lifeline. _Marines. Dad!_ He swam through the murk, frantically trying to rise above the haze and confusion. 

“Let’s get started, Samuel. Punishment isn’t effective unless it is delivered in a timely manner.”

Not Dad. Not Dean. Nobody, but _him_.

 

* * *

 

Sam bit hard into the rubber between his teeth and futilely tried to swallow the sobs that had been spilling over for the last God knew how long. He’d stifled them as the flogger rained down over his back and thighs, the leather tails stinging his flesh and breaking the skin. He smothered them when Reece’s sex forced its way into his unprepared hole, further tearing the abused tissues. He even suppressed them when the anal plug glided past his swollen rim, slickened with blood. They were echoes of his previous hurts, paling to his leg and head, physical wounds that could be dealt with. 

It wasn’t until the bite of metal against the sensitive skin of his shoulder, that the first tears broke free. It was a macabre version of the game he and Dean’d played as children, snuggled under a pile of threadbare blankets, neither ready for sleep. They’d take turns tracing patterns and words on the other’s back while guesses were whispered in the dark. The blade slid easily through his skin forever marring the tanned expanse. Sam choked back the rising bile. He’d always been undisputed Back Writing Champion.

He felt Reece settle back on his battered thighs to appreciate his knife work. “Mine, Samuel,” he ran a finger around the bleeding flesh, admiring his initials, JAR, displayed in dark red, “branded and claimed.”

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Dean looked around the empty field, a warm breeze ruffled the short hairs on the back of his neck and cicadas serenaded him with their harmonious song. The Impala was a solid presence under his hip, the warmth of her engine heated metal seeping through his jeans. This place seemed so familiar, but something was missing.

 As if conjured by the thought, the absent element appeared. 

Sam, fourteen years old with shining eyes and a wide smile stood a few feet away at the center of the clearing. “Dean?” Sam’s puberty cracked voice called to him.

He started to answer when he heard his own voice from the other side of the meadow. Like an episode of _The Twilight Zone_ , he watched his younger self approach Sam holding a large box of fireworks in his outstretched arms. 

He remembered this. How could he not recognize it?

It was a surprise, something to clear the solemn look his kid brother had been wearing since school let out a month earlier. Dean had _liberated_ a box of fireworks from a roadside stand and drove Sam out to a vacant field to shoot them off. 

Sliding on to the hood of the car, he looked on fondly, a voyeur of his own past, fascinated by the outsider point of view of his most cherished memory. He watched the two of them in the deserted clearing, awestruck faces turned to Heaven and illuminated by the pyrotechnic kaleidoscope of colors from above, cheeks raised in face splitting smiles. The dimples alone had made it worth the risk of getting caught. 

It was a stolen moment of adolescent innocence, untouched by the harsh reality that was their life, where an accidental burn was the biggest danger. A too brief sample of what their life could have been without demons and fire and revenge. But the brotherly act of rebellion wasn’t the only thing that made this recollection special. 

He leaned forward for a better view as Memory Sam wrapped his arms around Memory Dean and murmured words of gratitude into the worn cotton of his Metallica t-shirt.  He’d known that his feelings toward Sam were more than fraternal for a long time, but it was here, now, this Fourth of July, standing in the drought chapped grass of a Tennessee field watching Sammy twirl under a rain of sparks, that he understood he was in love with his brother. He watched as the two boys embracing in the clearing pulled away slightly, arms still entangled and gaze focused on the other. The last firework popped, green starburst glowing brightly against the inky backdrop of the star studded sky before fading and leaving them in the light of the full moon overhead. The ethereal radiance painted them in muted gray, ghosts separated from the world by their cocooned embrace. The silence after the cacophony of noise from the explosions was oppressive as if the meadow and surrounding forest held its breath, waiting for what happened next. 

He sat enraptured as the spirits of his past swayed toward each other and their lips pressed together in a chaste kiss.  His mouth watered at the remembered taste of Sam’s lips, cherry sweet from the popsicle he’d eaten earlier that afternoon. He witnessed the fear he’d felt that night cross his unlined face as his younger self broke the contact and searched Memory Sam’s face. 

This was the exact moment, not the kiss before or the many that would follow after, which changed everything. From where he stood he could see the same thing he had then, instead of the disgust he’d expected, all he found was his own feelings staring back at him. His heart thundered in his chest just as he knew it had two years ago when he stood in this field the first time, transfixed by hazel eyes so full of love and adoration, and wondered if he’d just doomed them both.

Memory Sam bit his bottom lip and nodded shyly at the question he read in green eyes before him. Dean watched the meager walls his juvenile self had constructed fall as his features were flooded with relief. Young Dean pulled Sam close and brought their lips together again, their transformation from Sam and Dean to _SamandDean_ sealed with a kiss.

Slipping off the Impala and leaning against it as the night it all changed – they changed – replayed before his eyes; he smiled at the memory. Standing, he adjusted his jeans, his body responding to the vivid reenactment before him. 

“Sammy?” His own panicked yell had him focusing back on the figures in the field. No, the figure in the field. Memory Dean stood alone, spinning in circles and searching for Sam. 

_Wait, this didn’t happen._

Teenage Dean disappeared before his eyes, fading away into the darkness of the night. He startled when something moved lightning quick along the edge of the forest. A fox seeking refuge in the safety of the trees. 

Moving toward the box of abandoned fireworks, he heard Sam call his name from the darkened fringe of the forest. 

“Sam? Where are you?”

“Dean!”

“Sammy!” He hurried toward the sound of his brother’s voice.

“Dean!” Sam was no longer calling, but screaming his name, high-pitched and scared. 

Dean pumped his legs, urging his body to move faster as Sam’s cries grew more frantic and desperate. “I’m coming, Sammy! Hold on.”

“Dean, please. Help me!” The words cut straight to his heart, flaying it open. He broke the tree line, jumping a fallen log and plunging blindly into the thick, green underbrush. “Dean, please. Save me…” The last words floated by him on a whisper followed by deafening silence. Straining, his ears were greeted only by the quiet of the still night. 

“Sammy?” No answer. “Sam?” Silence. “Sammy?” He stumbled forward, tripping over small rocks and fern hidden vines. The fox sat on a stump nearby, watching him with clever curiosity. “Sammy!”

 

* * *

 

Dean yelling out for Sam in the waking world pulled him from his dream. He lurched forward in the passenger seat, sweat trickling down his chest and his lungs pistoning with his rapid breaths. His heart was beating a staccato rhythm behind his ribs and his skin felt stretched too tight. Sam’s pleading echoed in his ears. Catching John’s worried glance out of the corner of his eye, he swiped a hand over his sweat damp hair. They’d been checking every whistle stop and one horse town along I-35 looking for Sam, or at the least another clue, but so far they hadn’t found anything.

“You got anything?” Dean jumped at his father’s question, unsure what the older man was referring to before realizing John was on his cell phone. 

Ash blew out a breath and held a finger up to the flannel clad man rapping his knuckles on the bar. “I’ve got guano on Sam, JW. When I hacked into Sam’s phone records, I noticed the same number over and over again.” Rounding the counter, he swiveled his laptop around so he could see the screen as he poured the waiting man a beer. Setting the pilsner glass down in front of the patron, he moved to the portable computer and clicked on a minimized window to enlarge it. “I finally tracked it. The phone is disconnected now, but it belonged to Jean Biche of St. Paul.” Ash waved a distracted hand at a surly, black man leaning on a stool with an empty glass, loudly clearing his throat and shooting him an expectant look. 

“St. Paul? We haven’t been to Minnesota in over a year. What? A demon jumped some unsuspecting Vikings fan and rode him to Bedford, Indiana just to kidnap Sam? Hell have something against the Colts?”

“Jean Biche, mi compadre, is French for John Doe,” Ash continued, ignoring John’s snark and turning his back on the annoyed customer, “and the billing address, 443 Fillmore Ave E., is the USPS Dead Letter Office. Whatever took him is crazy smart and good at duck and cover.” 

“Ash, you’d be hell on a suicide hotline. You got anything good for us?”

“There was something in this morning’s _Bedford Tribune_.” He clicked on another minimized window and the cover of the Sunday morning edition filled the screen. Thick, bold font heralded the lead story.

**LOCAL TEACHER MISSING**

Next to the article was a picture of the teacher smiling sweetly for the camera, a school portrait for the yearbook from the looks of the banal background. 

“A teacher at the high school was reported missing.” He skimmed the article, reading the pertinent information aloud. “Last seen Thursday leaving campus, friends filed the report yesterday when calls weren’t returned and no one answered the door.”

“Maybe the demon took the teacher too?” John noticed Dean sit straighter in his seat, confused eyes staring at him. Thinking about what Dean said earlier about Sam being too trusting sometimes, he added, “Or maybe the demon possessed the teacher to get closer to Sam? It would have to dump its old meatsuit to take on a new one. Any reports of a body turning up?”

“Sorry, man. I’ve got a couple of programs running, cross-referencing police for Bedford and the surrounding towns, but so far nada. I’m also running traces on the teacher’s credit cards.” Ash pulled his hands away when the lid to his laptop slammed shut. “ _Dude_ , party foul!” Glaring at the impatient man, Ash slid his computer out from under the man’s hand. “I’m occupado. Comprendo? You don’t like it, find another hunter bar that will put up with your no-tipping ass!” Huffing, the man turned and retreated back to the pool table where his buddies were waiting for him.

“Everything okay?” If John didn’t know better, he’d swear that the laid back, mullet haired roadie was stressed. “Where’s Ellen? Doesn’t she usually handle the customers?”  With good reason, John thought.

“Fuckin’ Gordon. Ellen’s not here. She’s out where everyone who’s not a self-absorbed _douche_ ,” he held the phone away and yelled the insult toward the pool tables, “is right now. Helpin’ look for Sam. I’m the lunatic running the asylum for the time being.” He slid his laptop on the shelf beneath the counter and nodded at the woman seated at the end of the bar tapping her tumbler with two fingers. 

John’s brows furrowed in surprise and confusion. “Ellen is out looking for Sam? She never leaves that dank hole.”

“Kids, JW; every hunter’s Achilles heel. And not just any kid, but one of our own. Where the hell else would she be? Jo’s only two years younger than your Sam.” Ash filled the woman’s glass half-way with whisky, replacing the bottle on the shelf lining the back wall of the bar area.

Nodding, images of blonde pigtails and a melodic _Uncle Johnny_ flashed through his mind. He shook his head to clear it before his thoughts turned dark. “Thanks, Ash. Let me know if you find anything.”

 Ash grabbed a PBR from the cooler and opened it against the counter. “Will do.” Taking a long pull, he scowled at Gordon and his cronies before setting his laptop back on the bar to check the progress of his search engines. “Take care, JW.”

 “Who was the teacher?” Dean asked softly, pulling John from memories of blood and claws and tear streaked cheeks and grieving eyes.

 “Oh, hey, Ash. Ash!” He yelled to get the other man’s attention before he hung up.

“Yeah?”

“What was the name of the teacher who went missing?”

“Uh, hold on,” Ash clicked back to the newspaper, “Ms. Erin Goss.”

“Erin Goss,” John repeated, “thanks.”

“Anytime.”

“Goss, Goss, Goss” Dean mumbled as John flipped his phone closed and slid it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Sam have her as a teacher?”

“Name sounds familiar, Chemistry maybe?” Sam had told him about the hot Chemistry teacher and how the all the boys jerked off to fantasies of her giving them ‘detention’. It seemed like her name might have been Goss. 

“She went missing Thursday night. Ash is running her cards to see if anything pops up.” Scratching fingers over his stubbled jaw, he squinted at a roadside sign showing 15 miles to Wichita. “Unless he finds something, we’ll just keep on I-35.” The look on Dean’s face tugged at his heart. Each mile was weighing on them both, each minute without Sam a knife in the gut. “It’s the best we got right now, Dean.  This is the last road we’re sure he was on. Bobby and Rufus are checking out the area around Hillsdale State Park and we’ve got every hunter that can be spared searching. We’ll find him, Dean.”

Dean nodded and stared out the window as the Wichita skyline came into view. Resting his elbow on the door, he laid his head in his hand and dozed off to the hum of tires over asphalt. His dreams were plagued by foxes and does and Sam’s echoing voice calling to him from a dark forest.

 

* * *

 

A sharp bite to his shoulder had Sam jerking awake. His body felt like a medieval painting of Hell made flesh, pain replacing blood in his veins. He couldn’t remember a time before the hurt, what freedom from its grasp felt like. A warm tongue traced the mark carved in his flesh, lapping the inflamed skin, as teeth bit a wreath of love bites around the site. He forced his body to lay still, suppress the instinct to shy away from the abhorrent touch. 

Reece shifted, scooting closer, and pressed deep, sucking kisses to Sam’s neck where finger shaped bruises mottled the skin. “You awake, Samuel?” He ran a lazy finger down the furrow of Sam’s back and slipped between the muscled cheeks. Sam jumped as the finger roughly pushed its way through the swollen resistance, his tortured cry unable to find a way past the gag still in his mouth. 

He closed his eye, tears slipping over his cheeks as another digit followed in quick succession. He couldn’t take it, the pain was too much. It would be so easy to give up, give in and let the hurt swallow him whole, but Dean’s face, lined with guilt and eyes heavy with grief, floated to the front of his mind and cemented his crumbling resolve. Thoughts of his brother pushed a broken sob from his throat, “e’n.”

The probing fingers stilled at his muffled call for his brother and quickly withdrew. “Dean,” Reece snarled, the air in the room crackling with his anger. “You think your precious Dean will want you now? A used whore, branded to show the world the bitch you are.” He bit down hard on the healing scab of his initials in Sam’s back, mouth filling with the metallic taste of Sam’s blood. 

Standing, Reece lifted his pants from the back of a nearby chair and pulled a folded handkerchief from the front pocket. He mopped the smeared blood from his face and dressed quickly, flint eyes boring into Sam. Crossing to the table by Sam’s head, Reece lifted the colored objects, examining each raised item before discarding it for the next. Settling on the wide yellow one, he carried it and two thin, black strips over to the bound boy. “I have to go into town for the supplies your Sir Galahad should have delivered and let them know he never showed up or the cops will be snooping around.”

 Setting the objects by Sam’s shoulder, he pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the manacles around Sam’s ankles. Moving to the head of the table, a deft twist of the key and Sam’s right hand was free, his captor immediately clasping it in a firm grip. Reece dragged it across to where his left was still bound and held it firm to the table while he retrieved one of the black strips. Sam felt something stiff and unforgiving bite into the chaffed skin of his wrist. His left hand was released from its metal shackle and tugged to the opposite corner where it was secured down by the other unyielding strap. Sam blinked at the ceiling, supine for the first time since entering the dungeon. “These will give you a little less wiggle room and they don’t make any noise to alert anyone who might come to the door while I’m gone. We don’t want another delivery boy incident, do we Samuel?” 

Petting down his side, Reece picked up the yellow item and Sam got his first good look at it. An anal plug. Big Bird’s anal plug from the size of it. “When I get back I expect my name to be the only one you call, the only one you remember, or you _will_ be sorry. This,” he gestured to Sam’s wounded body, “is nothing compared to what I could do to you. And to ensure that you’ll be ready for me when I return…” He smirked, grasping Sam’s thigh in a firm grip and lifting it up and away. Sam’s broken leg lay untethered, twitching and useless.

Sam’s body was vibrating with pain and nerves, the change in position stoking the flames of his injuries into an inferno. The lash marks had broken open and he could feel the warm wetness of his own blood under him. He screamed against the gag as the plug was forced dry into his battered entrance.  His hurt leg shifted as the instinct to move away warred with the pain movement caused. When Reece released him, he panted, nostrils flaring and stomach heaving.

 “Remember, Samuel. My name and only my name,” he patted the flange, jostling the intruding rubber and making Sam squirm. Chuckling, he climbed the stairs and slammed the door. The front door opened and closed then Sam heard the SUV’s engine rumble to life.

Sam’s lungs burned, his rabbit fast breathing not allowing enough air in before it was forced back out again. Logically he knew he was hyperventilating but he was helpless to stop it. He was going to die. Reece was going to kill him, whether by accident or intention still remained to be seen. Either way, it didn’t matter, the outcome would be the same. Him, dead. Maybe if he was lucky, Reece would bury his body instead of just dumping it somewhere. Maybe he’d turn into a vengeful spirit and exact justice of biblical proportions on the fucker. Dad and Dean would put him to rest. Once again thoughts of his brother broke through the mad chaos of his mind.

_“Ssshh, Sammy. Sing with me.” The voice was soothing, a smooth coo that tried to force its way past the panic._

_“Can’t. Dean,” he panted, deep gash in his leg stealing his breath and forcing tears to his eyes._

_“Yes, you can. Try,” the same soothing voice, arms enveloping him and rocking slowly back and forth, “_ When you're down and out, When you're on the street, When evening falls so hard, I will comfort you _.”_

_“Dean. Can’t.”_

_“Come on, Sammy. I need that girly soprano of yours for the harmony.”_

_“_ I'll. Take. Your. Part _.”_

_“That’s good, Sammy. Keep it up.” A calloused hand stroked over his hair._

_“_ When. Darkness. Comes. And pain. Is all. Around _.” Words whisper soft started to come with greater regularity. “_ Like a bridge. Over troubled water. I will lay me down, Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down. _” Breathing easier, Sam leaned back into the solid presence of his brother_

_“See, Sammy. I told you, you could do it.” Dean continued petting and singing, the combination settling Sam until Dad found the first aid kit he was tearing the trunk apart for._

Calming at the memory, Sam surveyed his surroundings. His eyes, the left slitted and refusing to move to that side, scanned the room – quickly moving over the sexual toys hanging from the walls. One door to the upstairs, none to the outside, no windows. He was strapped down on a waist high table by zip ties threaded through eye hooks. Thinking, looking over the items in the room trying to McGyver something together, he absently played with the eye hooks – engulfing them in his hands, sticking a finger in the holes, tracing the curves…

 _Ouch!_ He tilted his head up to see a thin trickle of blood running down his index finger. Gently feeling the hook again, he found a sharp place, unnoticed during its manufacture, on the inside curve of the metal. Grinning around the rubber in his mouth, he moved his arm so the zip tie continuously ran over the edge.

Several minutes and dozens of curses later, Sam was rotating his wrists to restore the blood flow. Ripping off the gag, he threw it across the room and rubbed his jaw, opening and closing it a few times and wincing at the clicks and pops from the stiff joint. He slid off the table, careful to place all his weight on his good leg, and looked around for something to cut the other tie. On the table, amongst the rainbow array of plugs and – _oh, God_ – vibrators, was a set of scalpels, one stained with Sam’s blood. Stretching, zip tie cutting into the flesh of his bound wrist, he grabbed the nearest one and set to work on the plastic restraint.

 

* * *

 

He lay on the ground sobbing and panting. The trip up the stairs had been harrowing. He’d hopped on his good leg to the bottom of the stairway and then crawled up the steps, his injured leg bumping against the wall and steps along the way. Only allowing himself a minute, he crawled to the bedroom, dragging his broken leg like a lame dog.

It was slow going and Sam began to wonder how long it would take Reece to get to town and back. Hell, Sam wasn’t even sure where ‘town’ was. Bracing himself on the bed, he gasped as he removed the anal plug, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes when the dry pull on his abused hole shot burning pain up his spine. Staring at it, the yellow streaked with bright red blood, he vowed to die before he ever let Reece bring him back here.

He hurried getting dressed as much as his battered body would allow, but it still felt like forever before he was crawling to the front door in a t-shirt, shorts and one shoe. Sitting on the porch steps, leaning back against the post, he tried to catch his breath. He worked his jaw, stretching the muscles and tendons, the ache lessening with the movement. His shirt was glued to his back by the still oozing lash marks that had reopened when Reece turned him, the pull of fabric over the knitting wounds stinging whenever he shifted position. His ribs hurt with each inhalation, but the pain was welcome. It distracted him from the other aches he’d rather not think about right now, afraid if he did Reece would come back and find him still here, catatonic from the memory.

The tree line was close to thirty feet away from the bottom of the stairs, but the woods were still his best bet of escape. Searching the yard for a branch or something to use as a crutch, he noticed a stack of wooden planks against the trellised bottom of the porch just to the right of the stairs. It looked like Reece was going to do some repairs in between ‘loving’ Sam. They were a little short for a crutch so he might have to bend over, but they would work. 

Examining his swollen leg, he saw dark drops on the stairs by his ankle. Blood. Old blood, covered over my layers of treaded dirt. Had someone else tried to escape? Looking down at the next few steps, he didn’t see any more drops. Heart sinking, he glanced back toward the door. A line of spots marched back to the entrance, dotting the old wood flooring. Spurred on by the sight, he decided he’d rested enough and slowly hopped down the stairs. Gathering one of the planks, he heard the sound of an engine coming back down the dirt drive.

Moving awkwardly, he made for the trees as quick as he could, forgetting at times and setting his broken leg down only to be reminded when it erupted in white hot pain. He just made it behind a large pine tree when Reece’s SUV stopped in front of the house. He stood still as the man exited the vehicle, arms laden with brown paper bags, and headed up to stairs. Sam mentally congratulated himself for remembering to close the front door, but held his breath when Reece frowned at finding it unlocked.

Cold, gray eyes scanned the forest before the man shrugged and entered the house. Not wasting time, Sam limped off as soon as his captor closed the door. It was excruciating, the hobbling gait jostled his injuries, each step spiking pain through his body. Twice he set the board down on a mossy patch of grass and it slipped out from underneath him, jarring him worse. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and his breath came out in stuttered gasps.

His mind was fuzzy. Exhaustion pressed on him like a physical weight, making his body slow to respond to his brain’s urging. It had been over a day since he’d had anything to drink and even longer since he’d eaten. He wanted food and a bed, preferably in that order, but really he wasn’t overly picky at this point. He kept going, forcing one foot in front of the other. If Reece had made it back to the house already, the ‘town’ couldn’t be far.

Sweat trickled down his back and neck and he leaned against the trunk of an old elm. Rubbing under his arm where the plank was chaffing his skin, he tilted his head back and gazed at the autumn hued canopy overhead. Eye slipping closed at the serenity of the forest surrounding him, he heard it. Shuffling, fall leaves disturbed by footsteps.

“Samuel! Samuel!”

His eye snapped open, panic freezing him in place.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Reece sing-songed, voice growing louder the closer he got, “We can go back to the house and…play.”

Frantic, Sam scanned the area looking for anywhere he could hide. He pushed off the tree and moved as quietly as possible, gaze flitting from one place to another in search of refuge. Ahead, an ancient post oak loomed above the neighboring trees, one side marred black from top to base where lightening had found the highest point in the area. The electric current had created a large fissure in the trunk and years of rain and snow had rotted the center, forming a hollow. Sam hobbled forward, putting the plank in first he squeezed through the split and pressed against the side.

“Samuel! Be reasonable. You’re injured. You need to come back to the house before you make it worse.” Reece cooed, his voice persuasive and soothing.

The footsteps were drawing nearer and Sam clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the whimper that threatened to break free. Fear clenched steel hard and ice cold around his heart. The footfalls stopped beside his tree.

“Samuel!” the severe bite to his name, had Sam jumping, “Come out right now. Each minute you make me wait, the more I will enjoy your punishment.”

Sam closed his eye and pressed his hand harder over his mouth. _Please make him go away._ _Please make him go away. Please, God, make him leave._ Sam counted heartbeats, trying to focus his terror crazed mind. Three hundred and seventy eight beats later, he heard Reece move away, periodically calling his name.

Hand dropping to his side, a broken sound erupted from the back of Sam’s throat. He slid down the rough interior of the trunk, splinters sticking through the thin fabric of his shirt to catch on the edges of the soft scabs littered across his back. Resting his head back, he closed his eyes and let the tears fall.

 

* * *

 

Night had darkened the world outside when Sam finally crawled out of his natural hide-away, dragging his makeshift crutch behind him. Using the tree, he stood, balanced on his good leg, and looked over the foreign landscape. Nothing looked familiar. He couldn’t be sure if he starting walking that he wouldn’t end back up at Reece’s secluded house of horrors. Feather rustled overhead, the sound too loud for a nightingale or common owl. Squinting at the tree tops, he started off in the opposite direction, moving carefully in the dark.

He wandered aimlessly not sure where he was or whether he was headed toward civilization. Brambles and branches tore at his exposed skin and clothing. His breath puffed in front of his face, the early November chill nipping at him. Sitting on a boulder, he shivered and looked around for somewhere to rest and wait out the darkness. A soft diffuse glow seeped between the trees to this right and Sam’s brows drew together in confusion. He hadn’t noticed the light before he stopped.

Pushing off the rock, he stumbled around the trunks and over stones. The light grew in intensity and he followed it like a moth to a flame. Breaking the tree line, he found himself at the top of a small hill overlooking a two lane highway. The light that had led him from desperation belonged to a lone gas station.

Picking his way down the slope, he used the crutch to buttress himself against the pull of gravity. In the distance, headlights pierced the horizon as a car approached and Sam moved faster, caution losing out to the promise of help. The car pulled into the gas station and stopped beside the pumps. The driver emerged and Sam got enough of a look to see that it wasn’t Reece before he set his crutch on a patch of loose dirt. The plank shot out from under him and Sam fell full tumble down the hillside. Everything spun crazily as he rolled over branches and rocks that jabbed him on the way down. Unable to brace himself, his injuries falling prey to the rough landscape.

When the world settled, he was at the bottom of the hill without his crutch but only a few dozen yards from the gas station. Scrambling up, heedless of his aches and pains, he scurried across the ground, dragging his gimp leg, toward the car and driver still filling up.

 

 

* * *

 

Bobby lifted the handle and turned to place it in the cradle to the right of the pump. He leaned down to peer into driver’s window at the man in the passenger seat.

“Going in to pay. You want anything, Rufus?”

“Corn nuts.”

“Corn nuts?”

“Yeah, they’ve got a new flavor…”

Something struck the trunk of the car and Bobby turned from his conversation. Not seeing anything, the hunter reached in the car and pulled out his .38 Special, trading a meaningful glance with Rufus. Creeping to the back of the car, he peered over the fender to find a young man lying on the ground. Checking out the area, he tucked his gun in the waistband of his pants and knelt beside the boy.

His right leg was deformed and swollen and Bobby wasn’t sure how he was able to move at all. The thin fabric of his t-shirt was plastered to his back by sweat and dried blood. Gently, he rolled the kid over and drew in a harsh breath.

“Rufus! Give me a hand.”

The tall black man hurried to the back of the car, alarmed at the tone in his friend’s voice. Rounding the trunk, he stared in shock at Bobby on the ground next to a battered teenager.

“Bobby? Is that…?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he alive?”

“Barely.”

 

* * *

 

John’s phone rang, splitting the silence and shocking the two men. It was after midnight, so it was either really good news or really bad. John swerved slightly, struggling to get his phone free from the inner pocket of his jacket. Checking the caller ID, he flipped it open.

“Bobby?”

Bobby sped down the interstate, eyes flicking between the road before him and the boy huddled under every blanket he had in the backseat. Wide, hazel eyes watched him carefully in the rear view mirror. Each time his eyelids drooped, he would jerk awake like he was afraid to go to sleep.

“We found him.”

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

The whirr of tires over asphalt, broken at regular intervals as they drove across pavement joints, was lulling, but Dean refused to sleep. Energy vibrated under his skin, an electric current humming _Sammy’s safe_ across his nerves and making him antsy. Green markers counted off each mile traveled at a maddeningly slow pace even though Dean knew that they were going a good twenty miles per hour over the posted speed limit. They’d been almost to Oklahoma City when Bobby called. _We found him_. Better than Dad’s proud ‘You did good’ and even Sam’s tender ‘I love you,’ Bobby’s words were the sweetest he’d ever heard.

It was the rest of the conversation that broke him.

_“We found him.”_

_John slammed on the brakes and snatched the wheel to the right, roughly guiding the car to the side of the road. “You found him? Where?”_

_Next to him, Dean sprang forward. “They found Sam? Is he okay?”_

_“Actually, he found us. We’d stopped for gas and he collapsed behind the car.” The Pinto rolled roughly over a bump in the road and Bobby’s eyes flew to the rear view mirror at the whimper that came from the backseat._

_“Is he okay?” Dean repeated, patience waning._

_“Where are you?” John ignored Dean, pulling the car back on the road and turning around. He knew Bobby and Rufus were searching the area around Hillsdale State Forest, a few hours north of their current location, but he needed to know where they were taking his son._

_“About twenty miles north of Paola. We’re headed to Missouri’s. I’ve already talked to her so she’s expecting us.” He looked over at Rufus when Sam whimpered again, the other man twisting in his seat to check on the youth. It took a bit cajoling and gentle prodding to get Sam to accept some pain killers, but listening to the little whines of pain despite the narcotics dulling the receptors made Bobby glad they did. Hell, he would have force fed them to the kid if it spared him the full brunt of his injuries._

_“You’re taking Sam to Lawrence?”_

_“She’s the closest person I know of that we can trust. Sam needs medical attention, X-rays, supplies. Missouri knows a doctor that owes her a favor.” Rufus was a field medic in the army and used his skills to patch up Sam as best he could before they hit the road. They performed a hasty triage, splinting his leg and bandaging the seeping wounds, but Sam needed more than their meager first aid kit could provide. Each new injury that was revealed made Bobby’s stomach turn and his blood boil._

_“X-rays?” John repeated._

_Dean, whose heart had been thudding in his chest since the mention of Lawrence, couldn’t wait another minute and snatched the phone from his father. Ignoring the glower he received, he lifted the phone to his ear with a shaking hand._

_“Bobby? It’s Dean. Is Sam okay?”_

_“He’s,” Bobby hesitated, glancing back at the teenager again wondering how much to divulge to his already ragged brother. “He’s in bad shape, Dean,” Bobby almost whispered like the lowered volume would take the sting out of the words, “but he’s alive. Couple of broken bones for sure, but we won’t know the full extent until we get him to Missouri’s friend.”_

_“Missouri?” Dean mumbled, unfamiliar with the name. “Can I talk to him?”_

_Bobby looked in the backseat, the glazed hazel eye of the boy he’d come to think of as a son watched him warily. “He hasn’t said a word since we found him, but your more than welcome to try. Hold on.”_

_Dean waited, listening to the rustle of Bobby handing the phone back. His careful ‘Sam, it’s your brother’ in the tone people used by deathbeds, hit home how seriously Sam must be hurt. Bobby reserved that pitch for grave injuries and near-death experiences. There was some shuffling and then wheezy, erratic breathing._

_“Sam? Sammy?” The breathing sped up and Dean caught the faintest hitch that sounded like a muffled whimper. “We’re coming, Sammy. Hold on for me and we’ll be there in a few hours. Bobby and Rufus are going to take good care of you and we’ll be there before you know it.” A soft mewl crackled down the line and Dean’s heart broke. “I know you hurt, Sam. Try to hold on. I’m coming.” Unconsciously, Dean started humming, his frantic mind latching on to the only form of comfort he could give from a distance._

_Minutes dragged by, the shallow gasps lengthened and slowed, but remained sporadic and worrisome. Half-way through ‘Bye Bye, Blackbird’ there was more rustling followed by Bobby’s gruff voice in a library hush. “Good job, son. He’s asleep. We’ll take good care of him. You and your daddy drive careful and we’ll call when we know something or if anything changes.”_

_Dean closed the phone and stared at the square display window until the blue screen went dark. Robotically handing it back to his father, he stared out the windshield at the dark night and ordered, “Drive faster.”_

That was over three hours ago and according to the last sign they were still close to forty five minutes from Lawrence. _Lawrence_. God, why did it have to be Lawrence? Nothing good had ever come from that town, at least not for the Winchesters, and Dean had vowed to never return. For Sam, though, he’d drive through the bowels of Hell so -- Lawrence really shouldn’t bother him.

“How well do you know this Missouri woman? Are you sure we can trust her and her friend?” Dean faced to his father for the first time since snatching the phone away earlier.

Streetlights hanging over the highway highlighted the older Winchester’s face in their phosphorous glow before the darkness claimed it again only to repeat the pattern as they passed under the next lamp. In those few seconds of illumination, Dean could see that the worry lines around his father’s eyes and mouth had deepened, messy concern supplanted by the easier to handle anger.

“I trust Missouri with my life,” John stated simply.

“What about Sam’s? Do you trust her with Sam’s life? If she’s wrong about this friend and he tells the authorities, CPS will come and take him.” Dean’s voice broke, the thought of losing Sam again after just finding him too much for him to bear.

“Dean, trust me. I wouldn’t risk your brother’s safety,” John’s voice grew harsher at the implication, “Missouri has her own way of knowing if a person is okay.” At Dean’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated, “She has a special talent for seeing through people’s bullshit. If she thinks this guy is dependable then that’s good enough for me.”

“I sure hope so,” Dean mumbled, crossing his arms and turning his attention back out the windshield, the unspoken _for your sake_ fell heavily between them.

 

 

* * *

 

“My name is Agent Brown,” the dark haired man quickly flashed a badge, FBI stamped across the top of the accompanying ID in bold blue letters, then tucked it back into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, “we’ve been on the lookout for a young man who disappeared from Bedford, Indiana a few nights ago. We have reason to believe that he was in this area last night.” Retrieving a photo from the opposite breast pocket, he set it on the counter. It was a candid shot of three teenage boys, dressed in red gym clothes, sitting on a highly polished gymnasium floor, talking happily. Tapping the boy on the left, even seated the tallest of the trio, the FBI agent slid the picture closer.

“His name is Samuel Winchester. Do you remember seeing him?”

Burt gave the picture a cursory glance before turning his eyes back to the small TV under the counter where Sarah from Arkansas was bidding on the Showcase Showdown. By his calculations she’d overbid by a good five thousand dollars and in twenty years of watching The Price is Right, Burt’d never been wrong. “Nope, can’t say that I have.”

“The kid is sixteen years old; you think you can look again?”

Sighing, Burt turned off the TV and picked the picture up for a better look. Kid was clean cut and well groomed, didn’t seem like the hooligans that came by to try and trick him into selling them beer. “Sorry, doesn’t look familiar. What’d he do anyway?”

“Nothing. It’s what’s been done to him. He was kidnapped. The men we believe have him are ruthless and won’t hesitate to hurt him.” Agent Brown pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket that had held the picture and opened it to show mug shots of two men, one older than the other but bearing a resemblance that denoted kinship. The elder man had a gruff, hardened look to him like he’d seen too much for one lifetime while the younger graced the police camera with a smug smirk.

Burt flicked a glance at the booking photos then back at the image of the boy. Sixteen, just a baby, only two years younger than his Luke at home. “You said he would have been by sometime last night?”

Agent Brown tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. Why? You think he was here?”

“I don’t know. Jordan was on shift last night and, well, his girlfriend tends to stop by and the supply closet has a lock. If you know what I mean…” Burt raised his eyebrows and gave the agent a knowing look. “He might have missed something if he was otherwise…indisposed.”

Agent Brown pointed to a small sign by the register warning customers that the station was under video surveillance. “You only have cameras inside the store or do you have them at the pump as well?”

“Pumps, too. Too many damn drive offs.” Burt answered, a scowl at the reminder of the money he’d been docked for not watching the pumps close enough.

“Can I see the tape from last night?”

 

Walking toward the exit with several grainy print outs, Agent Brown called a thank you over his shoulder to Burt. The timestamp at the bottom of the pages read 1:15 a.m. and clearly showed two men, one Caucasian and one African American, helping a boy into the back of a beat up Ford Pinto. He shuffled through the papers trying to get a better look at the men’s faces, but they were obscured in each shot.

“Agent Brown?”

Burt’s voice had him stopping with his hand on the push bar to the front entrance. He looked back over his shoulder, features expectant. “Yes, Burt?”

The images of those two men and that poor boy played before Burt’s open eyes. He’d always been blessed with excellent facial recall, a talent that served him well in life, but now seemed more of a curse. His mind churned thoughts of those men coming for his Luke, snatching him from his bed in the middle of the night while he and Clara slept soundly ten feet away. Burt felt cold sweat run down his back. “Did that Sam know them? The ones that took him?” Maybe he could ease his mind if the kid had known the men and been tricked into going with them.

“They’re his father and brother.”

 

Tossing the papers in the front seat of his rental car, Agent Brown slid behind the wheel and tugged on the knot of his tie to loosen it. His passenger picked them up and studied the black and white images, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Two old farts picked him up a little after one in the morning. They went north in a Ford Pinto with South Dakota plates. I’ll have the bureau run the numbers and see who the vehicle belongs to.” Looking over at his friend, Brown placed a reassuring hand on the other man’s arm. “We’ll find Sam, James. I won’t let anything happen to your boyfriend.”

Reece dropped the papers in his lap and smiled weakly at his friend. “Thanks, Dustin. You’re a good man to come out here like this and on short notice.”

“Of course. Semper fi.”

 

* * *

 

It was five hours and fourteen minutes after he promised his baby brother that he was on his way that the Impala pulled up in front of a quaint two-story house complete with picket fence and flower garden. Traffic, people out at six o’clock in the morning with nothing better to do than keep Dean from his Sammy, and a gas stop where the pump was so slow that Dean swore the numbers were going backwards had cost them precious time.

The driveway was stacked three deep with aging relics of Detroit’s heyday, a Mustang sandwiched between Bobby’s Pinto at the back and a Gran Torino at the front. A new Mercedes was parked along the curb in front of the Impala and the shine of money made Dean nauseous. Wealthy people tended to see the world in black and white not the shades of grey that hunters lurked in. He shot a look at his father that once again conveyed how much he hoped John knew what he was doing bringing a stranger in on this. Being separated from Sam was not an option.

As they approached the house, Bobby stepped out on the porch followed by a tall, thin, middle-aged man with male pattern baldness and wire rimmed glasses. Bobby had just extended his hand to the other man when he noticed them coming up the walk.

“John, Dean, this is Dr. Evans.” He gestured to the man, “Dr. Evans, this is Sam’s father and brother.

The doctor graced them with a tired but genuine smile and received terse head nods in return. Seeing the doctor’s unease at the abruptness of his greeting, Bobby sighed and wiped a hand over his beard.

“You think you could stick around for a minute and bring them up to speed on Sam’s condition, Doc? It will probably be better coming from the horse’s mouth.” Guiding the stunned doctor back inside before he could muster an argument, Bobby sent a warning glare to the new arrivals.

The interior of the home complimented the outside perfectly. Older furniture, still in good repair, was scattered throughout the sitting room to create a comfortable conversation area and knick knacks covered the tables and shelves. The house screamed _lived in_ in a way that was as foreign to Dean as Sunday suppers.

Settling on the couch, side by side, the Winchesters regarded the doctor with anxious eyes. The doctor lowered himself into an overstuffed chair opposite them with a grunt of bone deep exhaustion.

“I’m not sure how much Bobby has told you,” Dr. Evans began.

“Coupla broken bones,” Dean parroted Bobby’s words from earlier, mind cataloguing each fidget and tick the man made for any sign of betrayal.

“Okay, let’s start there. Sam’s right tibia was broken. It was a clean, mid-shaft break; however, it appears that there was trauma to the site after the fracture occurred. The bones were further out of alignment than what could be simply casted. A rod was placed down the middle of the bone to hold everything in alignment. We can discuss later whether to leave the rod in place or remove it. Sam’s right ring finger…”

“Wait, Sam’s already been into surgery?” Dean looked from Dr. Evans to Bobby.

“Yes. When Missouri told me Mr. Turner’s assessment of Sam’s injuries, I called a friend of mine who’s an orthopedic surgeon and asked him to come in for an emergency procedure. The rod implantation only takes about an hour and a half. Sam was given a light dose of anesthesia and was in recovery by three thirty. Now, Sam right ring finger…”

“This orthopedic surgeon friend of yours, what did you tell him about Sam?” John’s tone was calm and collected, but Dean could hear the fear that laced the words.

“Sam was prepped and ready for surgery before Tom arrived. My staff and I made sure that the only part of Sam’s body he could see was the portion he was operating on.” The doctor sighed at the continual interruptions and decided to wait to see if there were anymore questions before trying to detail the rest of Sam’s injuries.

“Staff,” Dean yelped, face visibly paling before taking on a greenish hue.

“My wife and brother,” the doctor answered patiently, “She’s an RN and he’s an OR tech.”

“No one questioned why you were performing surgery on some anonymous kid in the middle of the night? How did you even secure an OR room?” John tried to keep his voice even, but the number of questions outweighed the answers and he was beginning to wonder if Dean was right about trusting a stranger.

“I guess we need to start at the beginning,” Bobby moved to the arm of the couch nearest John and lifted his cap to run a hand over his head. Replacing the hat, he motioned toward Dr. Evans. “Dr. Evans came to Missouri three years ago because he believed something was in his house and threatening his son.”

“Chris had been pushed down a flight of stairs,” The doctor took up the story, “strange noises followed him around the house, and his face had been mysteriously burned out of all the pictures on the wall. We tried the police, but,” The man tugged his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose, chuckling humorlessly.

“They thought you were crazy,” John finished for him.

“Yeah. I was out of options. My wife and I were terrified to have Chris in the house so we sent him to my brother’s. By accident I saw Missouri’s ad in the phonebook. I dropped the damn thing and it fell open to that page. I took it as a sign and I’m glad I did. They say the last act of a desperate man is prayer, Mr. Winchester, but it’s not. It’s a psychic.”

“It was a poltergeist,” a stout black woman entered through an archway, carrying a tray laden with mugs and a glass decanter filled with dark, rich smelling coffee. Dean rolled his eyes. _Great! A story in rounds_. Rufus trailed behind her with a basket of muffins.

“Nasty creature and powerful, too,” she placed the tray on the coffee table and shuddered, “For some reason the thing fixated on Chris. I cleansed the house and things have been calm ever since. Chris is now a sophomore at the University of Colorado.” She smiled warmly at Dr. Evans, her own pride at his son’s accomplishment clearly evident.

“Missouri saved my son. I told her if she ever needed anything to let me know. I think it’s appropriate for one son’s debt to be paid by another son’s need. Don’t you think?” Accepting the coffee Missouri passed him, Dr. Evans continued without waiting for an answer. “As for your questions…I told Tom that the surgery was for Chris. That he was home for the weekend and fell going up the stairs. Tom is an old friend of the family and watched Chris grow up. I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to come in. As for the facility, Tom and I belong to a partnership that owns a small outpatient surgery center.” Taking a sip from the steaming liquid, he sat quietly allowing his words time to penetrate.

“Satisfied, John?” Missouri handed him a cup with a wide eyed puppy on the side, smirking at his look of mild disgust.

“Go ahead. You said something about Sam’s finger.” John hummed appreciatively at his first sip even though he grimaced at the puppy design again before setting the cup back down on the table.

“Good. Sam’s right ring finger was broken at the proximal phalange,” Seeing Dean’s raised eyebrow, he corrected, “between the 2nd and 3rd knuckle. We’ve splinted it and it should heal without any complications. His left zygo-, uh, cheekbone has a hairline fracture close to the outside corner of the eye most likely the result of repeated punches. It isn’t serious enough to need intervention and will heal on its own, but will be painful. We found one broken and two bruised ribs on the left side. There were multiple medium depth lacerations on his back and thighs, whip marks for the looks of them, and a deep laceration to the shoulder that has become infected. I have ointment that needs to be applied twice a day and I’ve left bandages to keep the worst of the wounds clean. We gave him three liters of fluid intravenously to combat the dehydration. The most troubling thing right now is Sam has beginning stages of pneumonia in his left lung probably a result of the hurt ribs. I gave him IV antibiotics and left a prescription for a ten day oral treatment, but we need to keep a close eye on it. That’s everything I found. If Sam lets you know something I missed, I’ll take care of it then. Do you have any questions about Sam’s injuries or treatment?” He picked up his mug again and scanned the stunned faces gathered around him.

“Lets us know? Why didn’t he let you know?” John asked scooting to the edge of the couch to place his half-empty mug on the table and take a muffin from the basket.

“Sam wouldn’t speak to me. Actually, I don’t think he’s spoken to anyone.” Dr. Evans twisted in his seat to verify with Bobby who had moved by the entrance to the kitchen.

“Still?” Dean leaned forward and set his untouched coffee next to his father’s cup.

“Not yet,” Bobby answered, grimly.

“Don’t worry, Dean. It’s not uncommon for victims of abuse to be hesitant to communicate at first.” Dr. Evans stood, brushing crumbs from the muffin he just finished from his pants. “We’ll give him a few days. If he doesn’t come around…Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I’ll be by every day for the first week to check on the infections and make sure the antibiotics are working. He’ll need to come by the office once a week for us to x-ray his leg so we can monitor the healing. You guys can go in, but not too many at one time. So, unless you have anymore questions, I think I’d like to get home to Betty. Call me immediately if anything changes.”

The doctor quickly excused himself, shutting the door with a soft snick on the way out. The five adults sat in quiet contemplation. Missouri studied Dean carefully. She could feel the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him. The relief that Sam was safe and alive was overwhelmed by the amount of healing that lay ahead and underneath it all a soul crushing guilt that he’d let it happen. Taking a sip of her cooling coffee, she watched him over the rim. Yes, there were all those negative feelings weighing down his heart and soul, but she could also sense love shining through like a lighthouse beam in a storm. John was projecting the same emotions, but his were like a thunderstorm compared to Dean’s hurricane.

She lowered her cup, resting it in her lap, cradled between her hands. “John, Sam’s in the downstairs guest room. Take your son to his brother.”

John looked up from the muffin held loosely in his hand, one bite missing from the side. Nodding obediently at the woman, he rose and motioned for Dean to follow.

Dean worked to school his features and breathing as they made their way down the long hall that led to the back of the house. Sam needed him to keep it together and he would. If Sam could be strong enough to fight for freedom despite his body being battered and bruised and save himself then Dean could be strong now. He’d be strong for both of them. He’d be his brother’s legs until he could walk, his left eye until he could see and his voice until he could talk. He’d be Sam’s everything and be grateful for the opportunity. Grateful that Sam was here.

John stopped at a white door with lilacs stenciled on it at the end of the hall. His fingers wrapped around the brass doorknob, engulfing the shiny circle, and glanced back at Dean. “Ready?”

“For Sam? Always.” He nodded. John twisted the knob and pushed the door open. Dean took a breath, steeling himself for what lay beyond, and followed his thudding heart to his Sammy.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

The deep breath rushed out of Dean at the sight that greeted him.  Sam lay nestled under crisp white linen sheets and a blue flowered quilt, both pulled up to his chest, with his head propped against two fluffy looking pillows. Sam’s normally tanned skin was pale, eyes and cheeks sunken into his wan face. His casted right hand rested on his stomach and his left, knuckles scabbed from who knew what, was by his side. The left side of his face was swollen and bruised, dark purple surrounded by areas of green and yellow – new bruises over old ones. His cheeks were abraded, a linear redness extending from the split corners of his chapped lips, past the hinge of his jaw and across the lobes of his ears. The bedcovers rose and fell rhythmically with each breath he took, but Dean could see that the movement was too shallow. Two hills rose from under the quilt, the right noticeably taller and wider than its companion. Each bandage, each bruise, a reminder that Dean had failed to protect his brother, had failed to save his Sam.

Moving with the deftness his training afforded him, he went to the corner to retrieve an antique rocking chair and set it at Sam’s bedside. Sitting down, he winced at the old wood’s pops of protest then took the long fingered hand lying on the bed in his own and pressed a soft kiss to the damaged skin. “I’m so sorry, Sammy.”

 

* * *

 

 

John stood at the door, a silent sentinel standing guard over the tableau of pain, one son the physical manifestation and the other, the mental. His eyes raked over Sam’s broken form, cataloguing each injury and its cause. Swollen face, repeated punches by a right handed assailant. Lined cheeks, a gag left in place for too long. Shallow, wheezing breaths, pneumonia from damaged ribs. Casted hand and leg, struggle.  Then he called forward images for the wounds he couldn’t see. Whip marks, punishment. Laceration, torture. Mentally he created a grocery list of hurts, a running tally of justice that needed to be meted out.

He bore witness to Dean’s apology, his heart hardening at the shattered tone in Dean’s voice. This thing was going to pay for the hurt it had inflicted on his family and John meant to collect in the most painful way possible. Slipping out the door, he padded his way back to the sitting room where his old friends were gathered. “I want it dead. We’ve got work to do.”

 

* * *

 

Dean sat beside Sam, the only indication of the passage of time was the movement of the shadows across the floor as the sun made its way through the sky.  The dark outlines on the carpet shortened then elongated as dusk approached, heralding the end of the day. The unforgiving wooden rocker forced him to change position and he alternated between leaning forward clasping Sam’s hand and sitting back to watch his still body. 

He sang and hummed the soundtrack of their youth hoping to pull the younger boy from unconsciousness with the familiarity. When hours of that didn’t work, he changed tactics and began recounting stories of days gone by, skewing the plot so that Sam was always the butt of the misadventure. In each successive fish tale Sam became more dim-witted and clumsier, wreaking havoc and causing trouble that Dean, genius smart and feline graceful, would have to rescue him from. He would pause when he made Story Sam do something spectacularly stupid in the hopes that the real Sam would jump up sputtering arguments that defended his honor, but Sam slumbered through the attacks on his character and refused to be coaxed from his narcotic sleep. Hours of spinning lies yielded nothing and Dean eventually fell silent.  

As the butter yellow of afternoon deepened, morphing slowly into the indigo of twilight, Dean was woken from the light doze he’d fallen into by the stout black lady. Missouri, Dad’s friend. They hadn’t been formally introduced, but there seemed to be an unspoken understanding that they knew who the other was and that introductions were unnecessary. She stood slightly behind him, her warm fingers rested gently on his shoulder and her concerned gaze focused on the boy before them.

“Has he moved at all?” 

Dean closed his eyes, his head hanging a little lower as it shook from side to side. He’d watched Sam sleep his whole life, from infancy, swaddled in warmth and tenuous safety lying in a portable crib, to last week, embraced in sweaty limbs and sated relaxation in their double bed. Never once, in sixteen years, had it been like this. 

Sam had always been a flurry of movement. At eleven months old, he took his first step and started running with his second. His body was in constant motion – fidgeting, bouncing, tapping – much to the annoyance of Dean and their father. The need to release his excess energy followed him to bed. In the night, Sam turned and twisted and rolled. He smacked his lip and scrunched his face and rubbed his feet together. It was maddening and it was Dean’s lullaby. When Dad insisted they stop sharing a bed, opting for roll-aways or pallets on the floor, Dean learned to rely on Magic Fingers to simulate the nocturnal tornado that was Sam Winchester. He’d grown accustomed to the jostling and the motionlessness was disconcerting.  Now, sitting vigil waiting for signs of waking, signs of life, signs of Sam, the stillness was petrifying.

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Missouri’s voice was soft and sympathetic, “He’s fighting hard to get back to you. He just needs a little more time to find his way.” She patted his shoulder reassuringly and he wanted to bask in it, but comfort wasn’t his to take right now, only to give. “There’s some chili on the stove. You should go eat something and then you need some sleep. I’ll stay with your brother.”

“Not hungry,” he mumbled, leaning forward to run his fingers over the back of Sam’s hand and forcing hers to slip from his shoulder.

“Didn’t ask if you were hungry. I said you should eat something. Sam wouldn’t want you depriving yourself on his account.” Her lilting drawl slowed the words, drawing out the vowels and deepening the emphasis on certain syllables, and the sentences rolled lazily off her tongue. Sam loved Southern inflection, referred to it once as _honeyed hospitality_. Listening to this woman, who didn’t know anything about them, tell him in her cotton and cotillion accent what ‘Sam wouldn’t want’ just pissed Dean off.

“Look, lady.” Dean kept his voice low in deference to his brother’s condition, but the lack of volume didn’t belie the irritation, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for Sam and I know you have this whole Psychic Hotline thing going for you, but you don’t know the first thing about my brother so don’t pretend to know what he wants or doesn’t want.”

“Boy,” Missouri pushed him back in the rocking chair forcing him to face her fully, “I may not know your brother, but I can sense him. I can tell he has a kind, sweet, caring soul and that he loves you. He is clawing his way past everything to be here because he knows you’re hurting. So, no, I may not know Sam, but I know love. Anyone who loves you the way that boy does; wouldn’t want you sitting here wasting away watching them sleep. They’d want you to take care of yourself. Sam would want you to take care of yourself.”

Averting his eyes, afraid of the wetness he felt gathering at the corners, Dean gazed at this brother. He knew she was right. Sam would be upset when he woke up and realized Dean hadn’t slept or ate. His mind understood, he just needed someone to explain it to his heart. Nodding his head in agreement, he stood and bent over to whisper in Sam’s ear. “I’ll be right back, Sammy. This is Missouri. You be good for her until I get back.”

He straightened and a tight, forced smile ghosted across his lips. “You said chili was on the stove, right?”

“Help yourself. There’s cornbread and fixings on the counter.” She settled into the vacant chair, humming softly and rocking slowly back and forth.

Dean paused at the door for one last glance. Seeing him hesitate, Missouri reassured him. “Go on before it’s not fit to eat. If he so much as twitches, I’ll come get you.”

Dean turned to head down the hallway, a soft chuckle and a murmured ‘Psychic Hotline’ following him out the door.

 

 

* * *

 

He padded his way to the kitchen, nose tracking the hearty smells of tomatoes and chili powder. Kneading his fingers into the sore muscles of his lower back, he rounded the corner and came to a halt. John was seated at the kitchen table, books and paper strewn across the surface with his journal open at the center.  He ran a finger down the text of the book on his right, cross referencing it against a handwritten page of notes and a print out, then flipped through the pages on his journal. The sight was familiar, but off somehow.

“Rakshasa?” 

Leaning against the doorway, Dean raised his eyebrows. “Gesundheit,” he mumbled under his breath at the same moment a female voice responded, “Not known for playing with their food. Plus, the bite marks on his back didn’t penetrate the skin.”

Frowning Dean leaned forward and peered further into the kitchen. A shapely, jean clad rump protruded past the open pantry door, the person it belonged to bent over and shifting items on the shelves. The woman straightened and closed the door, a box of saltines cradled against her chest. Seeing him, she startled then smiled warmly.

“Dean. Hi, I’m Ellen.” The woman set the crackers on a non-cluttered corner of the table. Wiping her palms on her jeans, she crossed to him, hand outstretched.  At her words, John’s focus switched from the papers in front of him to the two people exchanging pleasantries, eyes watching the interaction carefully.

“Uh, hi.” It was the best response he could come up with at the moment as stunned as he was to meet yet another stranger. When Ellen released his hand and went to the stove muttering something about how hungry he must be, he shot a confused look at his father.

“Ellen and I go way back. Her husband, Bill, and I teamed up on some hunts.” John shrugged nonchalantly before studying the old tome again. Anyone else may have bought the casual act, but Dean could hear the sadness underlining his Dad’s words. He also didn’t miss the past tense, _teamed_ , in that sentence. 

Clearing his throat at Dean’s curious scrutiny, John lifted his puppy mug and took a sip of his coffee. “How’s Sam?” he asked without looking up, gaze shifting from the book to his journal.

“Um, good I guess. At least the same. He hasn’t…”

“Mom, have you seen my journal?” A young voice preceded what sounded like a herd of elephants coming down the stairs. “It was in my purple bag and now I can’t…” Turning to see the cause of the ruckus, Dean’s arms came up in time to catch a petite blonde girl, head and one arm buried in a bag, that barreled into him. 

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen snapped, ladle of steaming chili raised over an empty bowl, “lower your voice. Sam is still resting. I swear sometimes you could wake the dead.” She poured the chili and set the bowl on the counter. Motioning toward it with her chin, she picked up another bowl and started to fill it as well. “Dean, there’s cheese and sour cream and jalapenos on the counter. Cornbread’s gone, but I put some crackers on the table.” Ellen set the other bowl at John’s left elbow and patted him to get his attention. Pointing at the food, she stepped back to lean against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest.  “Now, Jo, what was so important you thought half the town needed to hear about it?”

Dean righted the girl, hand lingering on her elbow when she still seemed unsteady on her feet. She was pretty, long blonde hair falling messily from her ponytail to pool around her shoulders and dark, cunning eyes that regarded him with wide eyed shock, and young, a few years shy of Sam’s sixteen. It seemed to take real effort, but she pulled her stunned gaze from Dean to look at her mother. “I, uh, I couldn’t find my, um,” She looked back at Dean, who flashed her a quick smile and squeezed her arm gently before heading to the counter to fix his chili. “Journal,” she blurted out, coming to her senses once Dean’s back was to her.

“It’s on the nightstand under that wizard book you’ve barely put down,” Ellen rolled her eyes, turning to stir the chili. Reducing the heat and covering the pot, she smiled at Dean as he made his way to the table. “Dean, I guess you’ve figured out that this is my daughter, Jo. Jo, this is Sam’s brother, Dean.” 

Dean smiled in greeting and Ellen took in her daughter’s blank expression. She could see where this was going already. Picking up the dishtowel from the counter, she smoothed it out, folded it and thread it through the bar on the over door. Giving the room a once over before she sat down, she noticed Dean forgot to get something to drink. “Would you like some tea, Dean?”

“If you don’t mind. Thanks.”  He stared at this bowl, trying to muster the enthusiasm to eat it. It smelled good, but he just couldn’t bring himself to eat.

“I’ll get it,” Jo hurried across the room to the refrigerator, quickly retrieving the pitcher of tea and pouring a glass. She brought it over and plopped down in the chair next to him. Sighing, Ellen took the chair beside John.

“Bobby sleeping?” Dean asked, suddenly realizing why the picture of his father researching at the table seemed strange. It had been a staple growing up to see Bobby hunched over his kitchen table with John, reviewing crumbling books and yellowing papers.

“Elkins called and needs help taking out a nest of vampires near Boulder. Rufus is going so we can concentrate on Sam.” John reached across the table for a leather bound volume in front of Jo. “Bobby took him to Kansas City to pick up his car.” He checked the index and started thumbing through the pages. “He should be back in a few hours.” Finding what he was looking for, John jotted down some information.

Craning his neck, Dean read over some of the notes his father had made. He took a bite of the chili, prepared to force it down, and moaned at the spicy flavors that hit his tongue. Like a dam bursting, the first bite was followed by a second and then a third. Scraping the porcelain with the edge of his spoon to get the last remaining traces, he felt the weight of someone’s gaze. 

John was still buried in the ancient book, lips moving as he silently read the passage his finger was skimming. Ellen was leafing through his journal, brow furrowing occasionally causing her flip back several pages to check something. Turning toward the only remaining person in the room, he found Jo watching him with a simpering glazed look that made him uncomfortable. Caught staring, she quickly averted her eyes, Missouri’s patterned wallpaper suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

Shaking away the unease, he faced his father. “Have you found anything?”

John lifted his head, eyes rimmed in red from tiredness. “Not yet, but don’t worry Dean. I’m going to find the thing that did this to your brother and we’re going to kill the fucker.”

Nodding his head, Dean stood and carried his bowl to the sink. “I’m gonna go back in with Sam. Thanks Ellen. It was delicious.”

 

* * *

 

The small lamp on the bedside table illuminated Sam’s face in a halo of soft glow, the deep bruise there revealed in sharp detail. He looked like an angel, a broken angel.

“He’s been restless, but hasn’t tried to wake. I think he’ll be better now that your back.” From the edge of the sphere of light, Missouri rose and brushed a wayward lock of hair back from the slumbering boy’s forehead. She moved to the side to let Dean reclaim his seat, running a soothing hand over his hair. “Try to get some rest.  For Sam’s sake.”

He looked up at her, the corner of his mouth twitching in the barest form of a smile. Like a magic drug, her words weighted his eyelids and they began to droop. He scooted the rocker closer to the bed and curled his fingers around Sam’s wrist, pads resting over the thrumming pulse. He vaguely registered the sound of the door closing before sleep claimed him.

 

* * *

 

Dean felt like he no sooner closed his eyes when gentle fingers were slipping Sam’s wrist from his lax grasp. Sitting up quickly, the last vestiges of sleep gone, he firmed his grip and glared at the intruder.

Ellen raised her hands in surrender, instinctively taking a step back from the violence she saw in those green eyes. She shifted to the side and used her body to partially block Jo from Dean’s line of sight. She didn’t think Dean would hurt them, but she’d seen that look before.  On wild animals – mothers – when they thought their cubs were in danger and she knew nothing was fiercer than a mother protecting its young. 

“It’s okay, Dean.  I was just going to put some ointment on Sam’s back and change his dressings. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Relaxing, he swiped a hand over his face. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s on the phone with Ash. Something about a teacher’s body being found.” 

“Oh, must be that,” he yawned, “Goss woman.”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep? We’ll take care of Sam.” She moved forward cautiously, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Jo, you want to take the other side?”

Guilt pricked at Dean. He’d scared Ellen. It was evident in the hesitant way she was moving and keeping her daughter away. “I’m sorry, Ellen. It’s…it’s just been a stressful couple of days.” Seeing Jo round the bed and start to pull down the quilt, he added, “I’ll help you with it. That way you can show me what needs to be done.” He didn’t think Sam would appreciate Jo seeing so much of him.

“Of course. Jo, why don’t you go finish your book? I’m sure Sam would probably prefer we maintain some of his modesty. Close the door on your way out.” 

Dean smiled at Ellen’s perceptive nature, missing the way Jo’s face fell at the dismissal. “Thanks,” he murmured when the door snicked shut.

“Anytime. Everything we need is there on the nightstand. We found earlier that it’s easier to roll him to one side, doctor what we can reach then roll him to the other. I’ll roll him then guide you through what needs to be done. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” Dean pushed the rocking chair back and waited for Ellen to move to the opposite side. She carefully climbed on the bed and knelt next to Sam, arms reaching across his body to hold his shoulder and hip. 

“Okay, I’ll roll him toward me on three. One, two, three…” 

The back of Sam’s t-shirt had been cut to make access to his back simpler while still keeping his front covered. Pushing the light material away, Dean sucked in a breath. Sam’s back was criss-crossed in long lash marks, several scabbed over where hits fell repeatedly and broke the skin, and pocked by bite marks. White bandages covered the most severe and small dots of dried blood on the sheet showed where others had continued to seep. Reverently, Dean ghosted his fingers over the wounds, following the long stripes and tracing the edges of the bandages.

“Dean?”

He roused at his name and looked over Sam at sympathetic hazel eyes. “The ointment and bandages.” 

“Uh, right, sorry.” He carefully peeled off the old bandages, applied the ointment and recovered the wounds. The ones on his thighs didn’t seem as bad, the skin only bruised there instead of torn. He tenderly rubbed a sweet smelling salve on those that went on cool and heated with his ministrations. Fingers moving just under the leg of Sam’s boxers, Dean wondered who had put them on his brother. He hoped it wasn’t Missouri or Ellen or, God forbid, Jo. If Sam asked, Dean did it.

“Okay. Looks like you got everything. Let’s do the other side. This time I’ll need you to help me roll him. You’ll have to shift the broken leg for me.”

They traded positions. Ellen stood beside the bed and on her three count they rolled Sam into her, her body bracing him from falling off the edge. Near Sam’s shoulder blade was a different type of bandage, thicker than the others with a tighter weave. This must be the laceration Dr. Evans was talking about. Tape removed, the bandage fell to the mattress as Dean sat back on his heels and stared.

Following his gaze, Ellen examined the wound. “Good. It looks like some of the swelling has gone down. Dr. Evans tried to keep the stitches small so maybe the scar won’t be so bad. “

Dean sat transfixed. Stark against the tanned expanse of Sam’s shoulder were rows of tiny black stitches. They chased each other over and around, keeping closed the knife work of Sam’s assailant.

“Jar?”

“What, honey? The jar of ointment is next to your leg.” 

“No, jar.” Dean pointed, tracing the pattern in the air over Sam’s back, “J-A-R, jar.”

“Oh, God. The swelling and inflammation was too much before. It just looked like…”

“Random mutilation,” he supplied, squeezing the healing cream onto his fingers. He covered the black letters in white then covered it with the gauze. “Dad will need to know about that. Ritual markings like that are usually demonic or human.” He ran his fingers over the tape, making sure each corner was down before he moved to the others.

When they were done, they tucked Sam back in under the covers. Throughout it all, Sam never moved or whimpered, body pliantly moving as they directed. Dragging the rocker closer again, Dean rested his elbow on the arm and rubbed at the headache he felt forming between his eyes. What other surprises was he in store for?

Picking up the clothes Sam had been wearing when he was found from the floor; where they’d been discarded, Ellen watched as each of Dean’s blinks took a little longer than the previous one. “Missouri made up the couch in the sitting room for you, if you’re interested.”

Dean looked over at the woman, meaning to tell her he was fine where he was, when the clothes in her hand had him jumping from his seat. Crossing the room, he snatched the shorts from her and examined the seat.

“Is this blood?” He didn’t need to ask if the clothes were Sam’s. Who else in the house would be wearing bloody clothing?

“Yeah. When Bobby and Rufus found him, the wounds on his back were open and bleeding especially the laceration. The back of his shirt was covered too.” Jostling the articles in her hand, she found Sam’s t-shirt and held it up for Dean to see.

Dean studied the blood on the shirt and then the shorts. That was a lot of blood, but some of the wounds _were_ deep. Handing the shorts back to Ellen, he nodded and returned to his chair. He watched Sam sleep until he couldn’t stave off the exhaustion anymore. His dreams were plagued by bloody clothes and the word JAR.

 

* * *

 

Sometime later, Dean wasn’t sure how long, he felt tender hands guide his sleep drugged body from the chair. He tried to open his eyes, only managing to crack them, and protest – _not leaving Sammy, can’t make me_ – but was shushed. Forcing his body to focus, his vision trained on dark knowing brown eyes that held a compassion that he felt in his soul.

He stumbled, trying to keep up with those eyes that promised everything would be alright, and found himself at the empty side of Sam’s bed.

“wha?”

“Hush, Dean.”

Sheets rustled and sure pressure had him settling on a plush mattress as his shoes were removed. The tender hands returned and guided him down, his body sinking into the softness. 

 A quiet voice spoke in his ear. “You boys need each other. “ Like a pull from a magnetic force, Dean rolled onto his side and nestled up against his sleeping brother, mindful of his injuries. He was asleep again before the humming left the room.

 

* * *

 

“No! Don’t! Please! God, no!”  Whimpers for mercy and deliverance falling on deaf ears.

_I’ll make you hurt so good, angel._

“No! Please, no. Don’t!” Whispers in the dark barely audible to the one speaking them.

Dean shifted, rearranged his legs and unconsciously placed a comforting hand on Sam’s stomach. 

“No. Dean! Dean! Dean!”

Little brother’s cries brought Dean to instant alertness. Sam was on the bed beside him, thrashing, body writhing, trapped in his nightmare.

“Sammy, hey, hey, hey, Sammy. Wake up for me.”

“Dean! Help me! Dean!”

“Oh, God. Sammy. Come on, Sam. I’m right here. Wake up for me. Just a nightmare. I’m right here.” He brought his hands up, one coming to cup Sam’s cheek while the other went to pet his hair. The moment Dean’s fingers touched Sam’s flushed skin, the younger Winchester’s eyes flew open and his body became a flurry of arms and legs.

“Stay away from me. Someone help me! Dean, please.”

Dean tried to dodge Sam’s hits and kicks, his casted right hand glancing off of Dean’s shoulder, and duck low to get closer to him. “Sam. It’s me. It’s Dean.” A glimpse at Sam’s eyes in the moonlight and he realized that even though his brother was awake, he was still caught in his dream. 

Desperate, he straddled Sam’s hips and caught hold of his flailing arms, pinning them to the bed above his head. “Sam, please. Stop.” And then things got so much worse.

Sam’s vacant eyes sharpened and Dean had the briefest moment to understand his mistake before Sam went wild. Sam let loose a heart wrenching wail, the bastard child of a scream and a sob, and fought Dean off with the adrenaline fueled strength of the truly terrified. He bucked and bit and clawed, using every dirty trick that Dean ever taught him and a few that Dean had never dreamed of. Laying down over Sam and using his body to restrain his brother’s thrashing, he pressed his head close to Sam’s and whispered in his ear.

“It’s me, Sammy. I’m here. Listen to my voice. It’s Dean. Please, Sammy, come back to me. I need you. Come back to me.” Tears pooled in the corners of Dean’s eyes as he pleaded with his brother to hear him through the chaos. “Please, Sammy. I love you.”

The frantic movements slowed and the tense frame beneath him relaxed. Lifting up to see Sam’s face, his heart clenched at the utter look of misery, fear and pain clouding the hazel eyes he loved so much. Loosening his grip on Sam’s wrists, testing the newfound calm, Dean rubbed his thumb lightly over the raw skin around the uncasted one. 

“Sammy? You with me?” Dean heard the squeak of the door hinge, knew their struggles had woken the entire house, but ignored it. His full focus began and ended with the boy on the bed.

Sam’s panted breaths blew across his face, warm and sour from sleep and lack of recent hygiene. The feral shine in his eyes was dimming and Sam swallowed hard, before nodding slowly.

“Okay.” Dean blew out a shaky breath. “I’m going to get off of you now. Then I’m going to check your wounds to see if any opened up. Okay?”

A jerky nod.

“Good,” he rose up and slid off the bed. Standing, he pulled back the covers and checked over Sam’s breaks first – leg, finger, face and ribs. Sam’s eyes tracked his every move, a wariness behind them that told Dean Sam really didn’t believe he was real.

“Alright, baby boy. Let’s take a look at your back.” Dean talked to him in the same voice he used when Sam was young and needed soothing. “Help me out and turn a little to the side.”

Sam whimpered, but rotated his body, grasping the sheet to help pull him over. Dean was about to praise him when he noticed a golf ball sized stain on the sheet where Sam had been laying, wet and bright red. His eyes scanned Sam’s clothes and his breath caught in his throat.  Everything fell into place – the bloody shorts, the love bites, the chaffed skin from restraints.

“Oh God!”

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

With Dean’s gentle coaxing, he turned his body, the wet warmth at his back letting him know that Dean indeed needed to check his wounds. His memory after finding Bobby and Rufus was fractured and fragmented. He remembered the two older men tending his wounds and asking him questions that he wanted to answer but he couldn’t make his mouth work. He was afraid it was a delusion, his exhausted mind conjuring images of help to placate him as he died quietly in the woods of hypothermia and he knew that giving in to mirages was how people drowned in sand. Somewhere in his disoriented mind he clung to the hope that they were real, but one could never be too careful. Reece taught him that. 

They convinced him to take pills by promising relief from the pain, pain that had become an unwanted companion over the last few days, dogging each waking breath so much that Sam couldn’t remember what he felt like without it. The jumbled thoughts floated away in the haze created by the narcotics and sedatives, affording him moments of blissful peace. He stared in the rear view mirror at the piercing blue eyes that seemed to beg him to stay here and he happily obliged, forcing his eyes open each time they drooped understanding here was better than the there of his dreams. Then there were funeral soft words, _Sam, it’s your brother,_ followed by Dean’s voice on the phone. Dean was scared, voice dripping with worry and self-hate, and Sam began to accept this was reality. His mind would never be this cruel and summon up a Dean that sounded so broken. Gentle words promised Dean was coming and that Bobby and Rufus would take care of him. He pleaded at Sam to hold on, and Sam whimpered his agreement. It was unconscious and innate. Dean led and Sam followed. Dean asked and Sam complied. 

The low rumble of Dean’s humming, soft rock better than any lullaby by Brahms, flowed over him like peace, like love, and he stopped fighting the drowsiness. His mind drifted, his brother’s melodic vibrations carrying him through the fog that lay between awake and asleep and safely delivering him to the Land of Nod.

He awoke to strange concerned eyes framed by wire rimmed glasses. Questions in a professional tone came fast and heavy; heated molasses covered his mind and smothered his answers. Sam blinked at the man, body shying away from foreign touches and alien fingers. His heart thudded painfully in his chest almost drowning out the soothing voice that explained needs and wants – _I need you to tell me where it hurts, I need to take a look, I want to run some tests, I want him in surgery right away._ Another set of unfamiliar eyes, similar to the first but without the spectacled barrier, followed by equally strange feminine ones, hovered over him. He closed his eye against the pity he found here and he dozed.

A pull on the sheet beneath him and he was lifted, the weightlessness making him feel vulnerable. Hands touched his skin, exploring his body and manipulating his position. A hard cold, table at his back. _Not again!_ Panic shot wildfire quick through him and the hands holding him down only fueled the flames. He struggled, ignored the pain and fought madly, barely noticing the prick to his arm. 

His limbs grew heavy, failing to respond to his brain’s commands. His vision grew dim, gray pressing against the edges. Consumed by darkness, he heard a faint pained whisper. “Poor boy.”

 

 

* * *

 

_I can give you what you want, love you the way you need._

**_No! Don’t! Please! God, no!_ **

_I’ll make you hurt so good, angel._

**_No! Please, no. Don’t!_ **

A warm hand landed low on his stomach, fingertips dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers and smoothing over the skin there.

“No. Dean! Dean! Dean!”

He could hear a cooing voice, but the individual words were lost to him.

“Dean! Help me! Dean!”

Hands on his face, in his hair, and his eyes snapped open.  It was dark, but Sam could see the black outline of someone next to him. He flailed his arms and legs, body moving into action to protect himself. His right arm and leg felt unnaturally heavy, a bulky weight restricting their movements. 

“Stay away from me. Someone help me! Dean, please!”

His right hand landed a glancing blow and he heard a grunt that was more surprise than hurt. The outline moved closer, negating the power of his swings by proximity. Terror gripped him when a warm body sat across his pelvis and held his arm above his head. He screamed and used his fear to push his body past the pain wracking every nerve to fight off his assailant. He promised himself that he would never let Reece have him again and he meant it. He dug his fingernails into the hands holding him down and bit whatever body part he could reach. Body twisting, he kicked and bucked and head butted, using every trick Dean’d taught him and a few he’d developed on his own. 

His assailant blanketed him, using his size to further limit Sam’s mobility. Words were whispered right into his ear and he tried to block them out, knowing they would be poison to his soul. It was the husky ‘Please, Sammy. I love you’ that finally made it past the fear and turmoil.

_Dean?_

His body relaxed unconsciously, a Pavlovian response to his brother’s voice. Blinking away the lingering disorientation, he felt the figure rise up off his chest, the moonlight streaming through the window illuminating a face he loved. The grip on his wrists loosened and a thumb caressed the chaffed skin of the left one. 

“Sammy? You with me?”

Sam breaths came faster, his chest heaving, aching with each rise and fall. It looked like Dean, smelled like him, sounded like him. He swallowed and nodded.

“Okay.” A shaky exhale. “I’m going to get off of you now. Then I’m going to check your wounds to see if any opened up. Okay?”

 _Please let this be real._ He nodded again jerkily.

The pressure against his body lifted and gentle fingers probed his skin. His leg was lifted and he realized that the added bulk was a cast from foot to mid-thigh. It was carefully placed back on the mattress and traded for his right hand, engulfed in another cast. Next those fingers tenderly touched the sensitive skin of his face, stroking his temple and cheek. Lastly, tentative palpations over his ribs, feeling the bones through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He watched each motion warily. It was Dean. His Dean. Nobody ever cared for him like Dean did and nobody ever looked at him like Dean did. 

“Alright, baby boy. Let’s take a look at your back. Help me out and turn a little to the side.” Dean’s voice soothed him and helped him find the strength to move, rotate his body. He used the sheet for leverage and panted his exertion into the soft pillow beneath his head. Even over his own stuttering breaths, he heard the choked off sound Dean made and the whispered words.

_Oh God!_

His body stiffened and he jerked away when a hand ghosted over his butt cheek. He curled down in on himself, tears springing to the corners of his eyes and falling without asking permission. Shame flowed down his spine and curdled in his stomach.

_He knows. Dean knows._

“Sammy. Oh God, Sammy…” Dean sounded flayed alive, open and bleeding.

“Dean, what is it?” His father’s voice drifted through the air and Sam broke out in a cold sweat.

_Dean would tell him. Dean never lied to Dad, not about something this serious. Dad would know._

The sour feeling in his gut churned and boiled. The heat made its way up his throat. He shoved off Dean’s hands and awkwardly made it to his feet. He hobbled, the cast hindering his movements, but he’d managed with worse in the forest. 

“Sam! Sammy! Wait! You’ll hurt yourself. Wait!”

His vision was blurred by tears but he moved toward a square of light on the carpeted floor. An open door, his mind deduced. He stopped when a variety of eyes, all different colors and heights, stared at him through the opening. A hand touched his arm and a gentle voice said his name, but he jerked away, stumbling under the force of his reaction. Bowing his head, he shoved his way past the audience, bouncing off the wall across from the door. He cried out as the impact jarred his body.

“Sammy! Get out of my way. Sammy!”

He moved as quickly as his casted leg would allow. _Dean knew. Dad would know_. He had to get away. His body screamed and threatened to give out. It had been through enough recently and he kept asking for it to do more. He fell hard against the wall, toppling pictures from their nailed perches. He could hear murmured voices, worried and low, but he ignored them. Strong arms enclosed him and warm words were pressed into his neck. 

“Sammy, please. Sshhh. I’ve got you. Please, stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

His knee, his only means of support, buckled and the arms around him kept him from collapsing to the floor. A warm palm stroked the skin of his abdomen and the muscles tightened under the touch. “Sshhh, Sammy. I got you. Please calm down. Won’t let anything happen to you. I love you.” The last words, whispered into his hair, were his undoing. His stomach clenched, the muscles contracting and releasing as he tried to swallow back the bile rising in his throat.

Dean must have sensed the change, felt the tell-tale signs. Sam was picked up, he felt his body leave the ground, and, before he adjusted to the new position, cold tile was chilling his hip. There was a clank of wood rattling, a toilet tank lid and the smell of antiseptic freshness. Sam lunged forward just in time to painfully retch into the open commode, coughing as stomach acid burned his throat.

A cool cloth was placed across his neck while another wiped the tears and snot from his face. A hand stroked back his hair and warmth seeped into him from behind, supporting him. Spitting the bitter taste from his mouth, he closed his eye and leaned back into the strength he didn’t deserve. 

“You done for now?”

The words were soft, not a hint of disgust or annoyance, and he nodded. He listened as the lid was closed and the toilet flushed. A cool glass of water was pressed to his lips and the liquid quenched his raw throat. He moved willingly, his body pulled back against a strong chest as bow legs bracketed his own. A comforting arm wrapped around his chest, well above his injured ribs, while the other held his lolling head against Dean’s neck. He melted in the embrace, inhaling the leather and soap scent that was Dean. He lazily blinked his eye when commanding words, low and menacing, vibrated into his back from the chest behind him.

“Get that fucking doctor here now.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sam wasn’t sure how long he sat there before Dean was waking him with gentle strokes to his cheek. “Sammy? Wake up. The doctor’s here and we need to get you up so he can examine you.”

 _Examine_? Sam went rigid in Dean’s arms. 

“Sshh. I know. I know and I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. We have to make sure everything’s okay.” 

Sam’s eyes fell to the man with the wire rimmed glasses standing at the door of the bathroom. His eyes were filled with pity and remorse and Sam turned his face into Dean’s neck unable to stand those emotions leveled at him.

“Think you can help or should I get someone to come in?” Dean rubbed a soothing hand over his chest, massaging the tense muscles.

He bent his good knee, foot sitting close to his butt, and used his uncasted hand to lever his body up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sammy. Let me help you.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean half carried him to the bed, newly remade with clean sheets. He closed his eye and fought back the sob that threatened to break loose. _Everyone knows!_

“If everyone can step outside while I conduct the examination?” Feet shuffled out of the room, the air lightening without the ominous worry to weigh it down. 

His boxer shorts were carefully lowered, Dean sliding them down his legs while keeping a bracing hand on his body before he was settled on the plush mattress. It didn’t matter anymore if Dean saw. He knew. Nothing would ever change that. Dean knew everything, so the damage was done. What was the point of hiding his weakness? It was written on his body, clearer than any wall – he had been weighed on the scales and found wanting. 

He saw the stain on the light blue boxers, vibrant against the pale carpeting, and shuddered. His soiled shirt was removed and a clean one put in its place after a soft rending sound filled the air. He laid on the bed, back to the doctor with the blankets covering his bare lower half and his brother’s hand lightly petting his hair. He stared at the wall and awaited the inevitable. 

He could do this. Dean had asked, said it was important, so he could do this.

“Dean, I think you should step outside too,” Dr. Evans said gently.

Sam stiffened. The idea of being left alone in a room with a stranger and submitting to the test he knew they’d run caused panic to bubble up in his chest. The reassuring hand in his hair stilled, fine tremors vibrating the warm fingers against his scalp. “But…”

“This is an intrusive exam. Most patients find it an… uncomfortable experience and it can be difficult on the family.”

The hand resumed its stroking, Sam melting into each pass over his head. “Doc, wild horses couldn’t drag me outta’ here. So unless Sam tells me to leave, I’m staying.”

Still staring at the wall, Sam heard a deep sigh, resignation in an exhale. He recognized it, had made it many times himself. It was the sound of Dean getting his way. The corner of his mouth twitched quickly, a barely there then gone movement, that most people would miss. Dean wasn’t most people.

“Hey, Sammy.” The tone was fond, the way you’d greet a loved one after an absence that was felt deep into the marrow of your bones. 

“You can stay, but I need you to keep out of the way. If you upset him then I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Dean nodded his understanding and stretched out on the bed in front of Sam, replacing Sam’s view of the wall with one of his shoulder. Taking both of Sam’s hands in his, fingers entwining, Dean scooted closer and curled them into his chest. “I’m right here, Sam. I want you to focus on me. Just look at me and listen to my voice. Okay?”

Sam lifted his eyes and stared into the green of his brother’s. Nodding slowly, he tightened his fingers around Dean’s.

“Okay, Doc. Whenever you’re ready.”

Cool air caressed his skin when the covers were lifted to expose his ass followed by efficient, probing fingers. Then Dean started to talk, his voice a welcome distraction to the further violation of his body and dignity. Sam listened, quietly numb, as he yammered incessantly about anything and everything he could think of – places they’d been, people they’d seen, things they still wanted to do. It seemed that whatever came to mind, he said in an effort to maintain the constant litany of words and Sam hung on every tangential, disjointed thought.

 

* * *

 

From where Dean was lying he couldn’t see the doctor’s examination of Sam, but knew the moment the internal portion began. Sam’s eye that, up until this point, had been tired and reconciled flew open wide and his muscles went rigid under Dean’s hands. Dean released the damaged right hand and cupped his brother’s neck, his thumb tracing a lazy line along the angle of his jaw.

“Doing so good, Sammy. Almost done. So brave. I’m right here. Right here.” He shook Sam’s neck slightly until frightened hazel refocused on him. “Nothing’s gonna’ happen to you while I’m here.”

Sam let loose a whimper and squeezed his eye shut, lower lip caught between his teeth and body trembling. Dean tugged him forward by the hand on his neck and buried Sam’s face in the crook of his neck, giving him a more effective hiding spot. If Sam needed to hide then Dean would be his shelter. His hand slid up into the greasy locks of Sam’s hair and splayed wide over the back of his head, holding Sam safe and secure. The three fingers on Sam’s hand not immobilized by the cast tangled in the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, the rough fiberglass around the remaining two scratching his chest. His arms held the boy in their embrace together as he tried to vibrate apart. 

“Hey, how about we go to the Grand Canyon? You know I’ve spent my whole life driving this country and have never been to the Grand Canyon? What do you say, Sammy? The Grand Canyon?”  A few sniffles were his only answer and Dean turned his head to press a soft kiss to temple under his cheek. “Nah,” Dean answered for him, “you’ve always wanted to go to the beach. How about this? We’ll go down to Daytona for Spring Break, get some sand in our shorts and be on an episode of _Girls Gone Wild_ then head to the Grand Canyon and stop at Vegas on the way.”

It was a pipe dream, they both knew it. Dad would never let them take that much time away from the hunt, especially for those kinds of activities, but it was nice to pretend for a minute.  Either way, Dean considered it a small victory when Sam’s head nodded. “That’s my boy.”

Throughout the examination, Dean planned their trip down to the smallest detail – how to get Sam into Boot Hill in Daytona and which casinos he wanted to gamble at in Vegas. Each time Sam flinched or fisted his shirt tighter, Dean would massage his head and drop kisses in his hair amid mutters of ‘breathe, Sammy’ and ‘doing good, baby boy’. Once, he saw the doctor quirk a speculative eyebrow at him, but a stern glare had the physician concentrating on his work again.

After what seemed like hours, Dr. Evans covered Sam with the sheet and quilt. “I’m done. I just need to mark the samples I took and pack everything away. Then I have some antibiotic cream to apply.”

Dean nodded, his stubble catching in the lank strands of Sam’s hair. Someone had cleaned Sam up while he was unconscious, but the sponge bath hadn’t included washing his hair and Dean longed for the feel of silky soft tresses. “Hey,” he leaned back until he could look at Sam’s face, “you wanna get in the bath?”

Sam’s hesitated. Time passed and Dean could see the emotions rolling over Sam’s visible eye like thunderclouds on a swift wind. He waited as seconds and then minutes ticked by, the doctor’s movements the only sound in the room. Finally, Sam tilted his head in a tiny nod.

He pressed a kiss to Sam’s forehead. “I’ll be right back.” He scurried to the kitchen to retrieve a cup, leaving it by the tub when he grabbed a thick, fluffy towel from under the sink. He helped Sam roll off the bed and wrapped the towel around his waist, securing it over the jut of bone on his hip that seemed more pronounced than just a week ago. Slowly they made their way to the bathroom, Dean supporting the bulk of Sam’s weight, and by the time the younger Winchester was settled in the toilet Dean was out of breath. He frowned as Sam examined the tub, eye lingering on the ceiling and bottom, and forced himself not to think too hard on the reason for the inspection.

He turned on the water and adjusted the temperature, letting the tub fill while he removed the many bandages on Sam’s torso. Carefully, he helped Sam lower himself into the warm water, draping his leg awkwardly over the side of the tub. He sifted through the linens under the sink looking for the softest washcloth Missouri had and noticed Sam watching him warily.

He tenderly washed Sam’s battered body, gentle hands smoothing over tense muscles and leaving them relaxed in their wake. With each pass of his soap lathered hand, Dean tried to remove the invisible traces of Sam’s assailant wishing he could do the same for Sam’s mind and soul. 

Dean had never been a pious man – always believing that if Heaven existed it didn’t care and that he wasn’t headed there anyway so what did it matter – but this felt like a religious experience, a sacrament. While staying with Pastor Jim he’d seen a few christenings, curiously watching from the balcony of the church as the priest poured water over the heads of babies and absolved them of a sin that wasn’t theirs. Rinsing the soap from Sam’s body and hair, bubbles floating on the surface of the water tinged pink from dried blood, he cleansed Sam of another’s sin in the same way. Baptized in the church of Winchester.

Hair damp and body clean, Dean helped a tired Sam back to the bedroom where the doctor waited patiently. He guided Sam down on his side again and listened to the doctor’s instructions on how to care for Sam’s more intimate injuries. He re-bandaged Sam’s wounds and tended to his other hurts then helped him into clean sleep clothes. Watching Sam’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier, Dean sat on the edge of the bed and waited for sleep to claim his brother, hoping the rest was peaceful. After a few minutes of deep, even breathing he slipped out of the room to join the others in the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

At first Sam wasn’t sure what woke him, only glad that it wasn’t another nightmare. Raised voices filtered through the partially open door, muffled but still discernible.

“How did that quack miss that Sam was… assaulted?” Dad thundered. Sam turned his face into the pillow, shame darkening it red.

“Dad, keep your voice down. Sam’s finally asleep,” Dean hissed.

“You don’t care that your brother needed medical attention and that, that doctor didn’t know enough to look?” 

“I never said that and I don’t suggest you _ever_ imply I don’t care about Sam again,” Dean’s tone was flat and menacing, cold steel to Dad’s hot iron, “I asked you to keep your voice down so Sam can get some rest. 

“Mind your tone, son.”  Sam flinched at the angry baritone.

“Mind your words, Dad.” 

Sam waited for the explosion, but before John could erupt an unfamiliar feminine voice broke the stand-off. “That’s enough. You both need to sit and calm down. You going at each other is not going to help Sam.”

“Stay out of this Ellen.” Sam cringed at the venom in his father’s voice. The tone ratcheting up his heart rate and making him sweat. The timbre so close to the one in his nightmares.

**_You think your precious Dean will want you now? A used whore, branded to show the world the bitch you are?_ **

His breaths came faster, wheezily panted into the pillow that smelled of Dean from where he’d lain there earlier. Sam concentrated on his brother’s scent. He wasn’t with Reece, he was with Dean. He moved his body, proving to his memory-addled mind that he wasn’t imprisoned, tied up in a cold basement at the mercy of a psychopath, but free, tucked into a warm bed under the protection of his brother. 

“No, John. Now, sit down before I find something to whack you with.” A different woman shot back, Southern drawl evident in her anger. There was a pregnant pause and Sam could hear a drawer open and what sounded like utensils being shuffled. "Don’t make me use this.”

Wooden legs scraped across tile and the drawer closed. Sam counted his breaths in an effort to slow his hyperventilating, the rush of air in and out loud in the silence of the house.

“I told you, when Rufus and I found Sam he was in bad shape. His clothes were covered in blood so it was hard to tell where it came from and Sam couldn’t tell us where all he hurt. The doctor worked with what he could see.” Bobby voice was calm, deescalating.

“Bobby,” Dad snapped. “Sam’s been missing for three days then shows up beaten to hell and the doctor didn’t think to check for signs of… that?”

“Dr. Evans runs a small general practice here,” the Southern woman answered, followed quickly by, “I’m not making excuses, but understand he’s used to seeing sniffles and diabetes -- not rape.”

With one word, Sam’s hyperventilating stopped as his breath stuck in his throat. He hadn’t thought of it that way. Violated, yes. Taken, even, but not r-… His mind shied away from it, refused to think it. 

Apparently the word had the same effect on Dean. “I need some air.”

“Where are you going?” Dad growled lowly.

“I just – I just need some air for a minute.” The sentence came out gasped like Dean had caught Sam’s hyperventilating.

“Where? Another bar? That worked out well the last time. ” Sam gasped. It was a low blow, even by Dad’s standards. _Never go for the hurt when you could go for the kill, Sammy._ Anyone who knew Dean understood that right now he was barely standing against the crushing weight of his own guilt.

“Oh, yeah.” A scrape and clatter, the sound of an overturned chair echoed through the house, “Where were you when Sam was taken, huh? You think you can protect him better than me? It’s pretty damn hard to keep someone safe from a state away.”

Another scrape and clatter, rattling over an admonishing ‘Dean.’ “Don’t you dare…”

“You know what? Forget it.” Dean’s tone was dismissive. Heavy steps trod through the house and the front door slammed. 

Sam shook, tears springing to his eyes. He was tearing his family apart. Reece not only broke him, but everyone he loved. 

The rumble of the Impala’s engine startled him from his thoughts. He pushed up on the mattress, the rapid change in position forcing a cry from his throat. Out the window, he saw four horizontal lights illuminate the darkness around them in a devilish glow as the Impala braked at the end of the street. The car turned left and picked up speed, carrying Dean away from him.

“Sam?”

With true effort, he turned his eyes from the darkness out the window to the door. Standing in the doorway, illuminated from behind by the hall light, was a motherly looking woman. Instinctively, Sam scooted back against the headboard, hand shooting under the pillow to look for a weapon, finding none. 

“Hey, Sam. Calm down. My name is Ellen. I’m a friend of your Daddy’s. I heard you cry out and wanted to make sure you were okay.” She stepped into the room, hands raised with her palms to him.

Sam looked back to the window, loneliness and despair gripping his heart like a vice. He swiped at a traitorous tear running down his cheek as Ellen came up beside the bed. 

“Oh, honey.” Warm arms enveloped him and his whole body went rigid. Ellen held him tight and rocked him in a soothing back and forth. Tucking his head under her chin, Sam melted against her. His mind ran a mantra of _heleftmeheleftmeheleftmeheleftme_ that he didn’t realize he was whispering until he heard Ellen’s soft reassurances. “He’ll be back, Sam. He just needed to cool off for a little bit. He’ll be back.” 

 

* * *

 

Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, letting the vibrations from the engine soothe his ragged nerves. He knew that he and Dad both had been running a gauntlet of emotions for days and sooner or later there would be a breaking point, but the words hurt nonetheless. He needed to calm down. Ellen was right. Their bickering wasn’t going to do Sam any good. In fact, if Sam heard them tearing each other to shreds it would only add more stress that he didn’t need right now.

He pulled into the parking lot of the bar down the street, Hutto’s Hideaway, and turned off the engine. The bar was busy for a Monday night. Of course, it was football season and some people found that a good excuse to drink during the work week. He sat in the Impala and watched people enter and exit, no real compunction to go in.

 _Another bar? That worked out well the last time_.

He laid his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes. God, he was so tired. A soft tap on the window had him jolting forward, hand going to the gun in the inside pocket of his jacket. A pretty brunette stood on the other side of the glass, peering in. She was bent over and her low cut blouse barely contained her ample assets. 

“Hey, sugar. You coming in? I promise you’ll have a good time.” She dropped a salacious wink and licked her lips.

Dean stared at her eyes that were too blue and hair that was too dark. He shook his head and started the car. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got somebody to get back to.”

Glancing at his watch, he was relieved to see he’d only been gone for twenty minutes. Hoping Sam slept through his absence, he pushed the accelerator down a little harder.

 

* * *

 

A car had taken his spot in front of Missouri’s, forcing him to park further down the street. Hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep them warm, he squared his shoulders against the piercing wind and made his way down the sidewalk. The light was on in the sitting room and shadows moved behind the curtains. Wanting to avoid another possible blow-up, Dean rounded the house to enter through the kitchen. 

“Hey, Dean.”

He stopped at the girlish voice and narrowed his eyes in the dark. Jo was sitting on the top porch step, pink furry coat zipped to ward off the cold. In the faint moonlight, he could see that her hair was down and curled, her lips glossy with an unnatural shine. 

“Uh, hey Jo.”

She stood, crossing the autumn browned grass. “I saw the Impala and wanted to see if you were all right?” She rested her small hand on his bicep, squeezing it slightly.

Dean frowned. He’d parked several houses down the street. How did she see the car? “I’m fine.  Really. Too much stress and too little sleep. Doomsday clock hit midnight and, well, boom.”

“You’re sure?” Her face contorted into what Dean imaged would be a coy smile when she grew up. “We could sit out here and…talk.” Her hand traveled up his arm and around his shoulder, tracing a looping pattern over his chest. 

“Jo,” he placed his hand over hers to still it, “you’re a beautiful girl and I…oompf.”

Dean found himself with an armful of teenage girl, her lips pressed hard and possessively over his own. Stunned by her forwardness, he jerked back only to be accosted again. His hands came up and curled around her upper arms. Firmly, but gently, he pushed her away.

“I’m flattered. Really, I am, but we can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

“Come on, Dean. Is it because I’m younger?” Her hand slid underneath his jacket and overshirt, fingers teasing along the hem of his shirt. 

“Well, there’s that.” Dean stepped back, only to have Jo follow him.

“My Mom was five years younger than my Dad.”

“Look, I’m not your Dad, you’re not your Mom and we’re not doing this.” He took her questing hand in his and held it away from him. “You’re a sweet kid, but I’m not interested.”

“Not a kid,” she mumbled, petulantly. Jutting her chin up in a defiant air, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I know things. Come on, Dean.” Her face turned mischievous, “Have a little fun.”

“I gotta get back to Sam.” Dean ignored the request. Sidestepping, he moved past the petite blonde and headed for the stairs. “Good night, Jo.”

“There are a lot of people in there who could take care of Sam. You don’t have to be responsible for him all the time.” Making to follow him, she played her ace. “Do you think Sam wants you duty bound to him at the expense of your own life?” 

He turned fast on his heel, causing the young girl to stumble backwards as her ace turned out to be a joker. “There is so much wrong with all that, I don’t even know where to begin. Oh, wait, yes I do. It’s not duty that binds me to Sammy, its love. The fact you don’t know the difference just shows that you’re still a kid. Stick to guys your own age.”

Jo watched him shrewdly as he climbed the stairs. She cleared her throat lightly, eying him carefully. “Sam is closer to my age. Maybe when he’s better…” She trailed off.

Dean stopped, one hand holding the screen door open and the other on the knob of the back door. “Stay away from Sam, Jo. He’s not interested, either.”

He went through the door, unaware of Jo regarding him with a knowing smirk.

 

* * *

 

 

Quietly skirting past Bobby, John and Missouri conferring in the sitting room, he made his way down the hallway to Sam’s room. As he got closer, he could hear soft murmurs.

“Ssssh, honey. He’s didn’t leave you. I promise. He’s coming back.”

There was something under the cooing words and he strained to hear. 

Sobbed whispers in Sam’s broken voice _. Heleftmeheleftmeheleftmeheleftme_

His stomach dropped. _Oh shit!_ He’d left his brother alone right after finding out he’d been violated. Sam thought he’d gone and wasn’t coming back. He’d told Sam he’d be here to protect him then, just like always, he’s stormed off in anger without thinking. 

He rushed into the room, desperate to reassure Sam. Ellen was sitting on the bed, Sam cradled to her chest as she rocked him slowly. Sam’s eye was wet and distant, his cheeks streaked and body shuddered under the force of his weeping. Dean froze, paralyzed by the heartbreak clear on Sam’s face. Ellen pinned him with a hard glare as she continued to shush the boy in her arms. Liquid regret clouded his vision and the older woman’s stare softened. _Fix this_ , she mouthed over Sam’s head.

“Sammy, I’m so sorry. I just needed air. I wasn’t leaving. I swear. Never leave you, baby boy. ”Sam’s mantra didn’t falter, didn’t stop. Falling to his knees beside the bed, Dean took Sam’s hand in his and pressed a kiss to the scabbed knuckles. “Please, Sammy. Look at me. I’m right here.”

A red rimmed hazel eye lowered to his face and slid into focus. Sam lifted his head and Dean could see where Ellen’s shirt was soaked. Sam’s tears had not just started.

“Sam, I’m sorry. I promise, I’m not leaving.” He tried to let everything he was feeling show in his eyes. Sam pulled his hand away from him and Dean’s heart sunk until the digits twisted into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him from the floor.

 Ellen dropped her hold and moved off the bed, allowing Dean to take her place. She moved silently to the door, not wanting to disturb the reconciliation. Pausing at the door, she turned in time to see Dean kiss each of Sam’s eyelids, extra cautious with the swollen one, then cup his bruised face to lock their gazes. “So sorry, baby. Never meant to scare you.” Dean’s thumb stroked Sam’s cheekbone, his voice low and intimate. “Love you so much, Sammy. Never going anywhere without you.”

She covered her mouth and watched in awe as Dean caringly laid Sam back in the bed and stretched out beside him, curling around the young boy protectively. She smiled as Sam snuggled back into Dean’s chest, rubbing his cheek against the soft cotton pillowcase until he found a comfortable position, and Dean’s strong arm wrapped around him, cautiously placed below his sore ribs. Precious was the only word she could think of to describe the picture they created. It was love, simple and powerful. So strong, it was almost palpable in the air. It was the kind of love that most people searched their whole life for and the kind of love she wished for Jo. 

Feeling like an intruder, she turned and came face to face with Bobby.

He leaned to the side and peered around her into the room. She tensed, wondering what his reaction would be to the boys cuddled together like puppies. “Thought I heard Dean back. They’re something aren’t they?” He regarded her with an unreadable expression, a Mona Lisa smile playing on his lips made even more mysterious by the obscuring whiskers of his mustache. There was a glint in his eyes that she understood.

“Yes, yes they are.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dean woke as the first weak rays of sunlight penetrated the sheer curtains on the windows, replacing the pre-dawn dark with daybreak gray. The house was quiet, its occupants sleeping away the bleakness of the previous day and hoping to wake and find that sun had indeed come out. He nestled closer to the sleep warm body in front of him, nose slotting into the shampoo sweet tresses. He inhaled deeply, breathing past the artificial soap scent and the lingering floral fragrance of Ellen’s perfume to find the Sammy smell hidden under it all.

Sam snuffled and shifted slightly beneath Dean’s arm, rousing slowly under his loving caresses. “Morning, Sammy,” he said softly, hesitant to break the early morning peace, but wanting Sam to wake and know he was safe.

Despite the gentle reminder, Sam flinched when he opened his eyes in the unfamiliar room. Dean rubbed his stomach in soothing circles until the muscles relaxed. They lay there for a few minutes, soaking up the serenity of being together. 

“H-he came up behind me at the bar and drugged me.” Dean went still at the soft words. He’d waited all yesterday for Sam to say something and now he didn’t know if he wanted to hear it. “I had enough time to p-pull your amulet from my pocket before I blacked out. I woke up in the car, tied up.  It seemed like we drove forever. I-I tried to leave you clues. I sent you a text and left my bracelet at a Biggerson’s.” He ran his fingers over the rough surface of his cast where the bracelet used to be. “I cut my hand at some rest stop in Kansas and used the blood to write on the mirror. I had to be careful in public because he threatened to hurt people. He had a gun and told me he… he wouldn’t bat an eye to use it. In between stops he would drug me to keep me quiet. He kept telling me that you didn’t really love me, that only he loved me.”

Sam voice cracked and he took a deep breath, swallowing hard. Dean squeezed him gently and waited, knowing the story was only going to get worse. 

“He brought me to a cabin somewhere in the woods. He kept saying I was perfect and he would take care of me. I wouldn’t let him. He-he got m-mad. He ch-ch-ch…” 

Dean could hear Sam’s throat work as he tried to swallow down a sob. “Doing good, Sammy. Take your time. I’m here.” Dean smoothed his hand over Sam’s hair. If Sam needed to get this out, then Dean would lay here all day.

“He chained me up in the shower and while he washed me, he found where we’d had sex. He s-said I was tainted and needed to be cleansed. He…” Sam’s body shook in his arm, a deep tremor that vibrated through Dean.

“Come here, Sammy. I gotcha.” Dean gently prodded at Sam until he turned to face him. His arms encircled him and held on as Sam buried his face in his shoulder.

“A-after, he handcuffed me to the headboard. I broke loose and ran, b-but he caught me. I fell down the stairs and hurt my leg and my side. He took me back to the room and said he hadn’t shown me I was his.” Sam’s unsteady words, though they remained soft, gained momentum like Sam just wanted them out and Dean knew his heart was about to break. “He tied me down on the bed. I fought, but it didn’t…I begged. I’m sorry, Dean, but I begged for him not to, but he just…I-I think I blacked out. Then there was someone at the door. I screamed for help and he…he killed him. He said it was my fault that he had to clean up my m-mess. That guy died because I called out. He died because of me.” Sam’s voice was lost in a sob, the guilt forcing the first tears to fall.

“Not your fault, Sammy. Not your fault.” Sam’s pain was a living, breathing thing. Dean massaged Sam’s scalp and waited for the next horror. 

“He gagged me, told me talking was a privilege. He left to take care of the body and when he came back, he was furious. He knew we were brothers. Said I was his dirty boy and that he liked it. He dragged me to the basement and tied me to a table. He had knives and whips and… he played. I don’t remember much down there, the pain was too much. I remember calling out for you and him carving something in my back. His initials, I think. He said he branded me that you wouldn’t want me anymore.” Dean started to interrupt, but Sam continued over him. On a roll, he was unwilling to brake. “He left for groceries. I got loose, I crawled away. He came after and I hid in an old rotted oak tree. I was lost. I thought I was going to die. Then Bobby was there and your voice and…”

Sam’s cries overtook him and he pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder. He took a stuttering breath, “He raped me, Dean. He raped me.”

“I know, Sammy. I know.” Dean tightened his hold as much as he dared and curled his leg over Sam’s, cocooning him with his body. They stayed like that until Sam’s cries died down to hitched sobs.

“Sammy?” Dean leaned back to look at Sam’s face and used his t-shirt to wipe away the remaining tear tracks. “Can you tell me what took you? You said you thought he carved his initials in your back. Do you know what does JAR stand for?”

Sam nodded, a cold smile twisting his face into a cruel grimace. He wasn’t the only one who’d divulged too much during their shared lunches. “James Allen Reece III.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair, his eyes tired and itchy from staring at the computer screen. He rubbed them to relieve the dryness, quickly blinking to spread the resulting tears. The house was quiet, everyone asleep after a day of phone calls and internet searches. It had been three days since Sam woke up and two since he’d brokenly whispered to Dean the nightmare he’d lived. In that time, every minute Sam was awake, Dean was at his side. They played cards and watched TV. Sam read while Dean spent an exorbitant amount of time decorating the cast on his leg with every inappropriate thing he could think of. Missouri cuffed him when she walked by and happened to notice the crudely drawn piece of anatomy on the back of Sam’s knee. 

“What?”  He squawked indignantly. “It’s his wei-knee. Get it?” He nudged Sam’s elbow and considered the slap to the head a small price to pay for the smile he received. A small, genuine Sammy smile.

When Sam slept, which he did a lot with the help of his overtaxed body and a steady stream of painkillers, Dean was at the computer. As soon as they had a name, John called Ash wanting to know everything the hacker could find on Reece ‘including the toothpaste he uses.’  The information was trickling in slowly and Dean reviewed each new piece with single-minded determination. He made it his mission to be an expert on the man he was going to kill and there was no doubt in his mind that he would kill him.

Pushing with his toes, he rocked onto the back legs of his chair and stretched his arms high above his head, relishing in the pull of muscles and pop of joints. He lowered himself down, working his neck side to side, and clicked on a screen to maximize it. He sneered at the picture, a headshot in Marine Blues, then skimmed the accompanying information that Ash sent.

Name: Reece III, James Allen

Aliases: Jim

DOB: 6/22/1966

Height:  6’ ½” 

Hair: Dark Brown

Eyes: Gray

Identifying Marks:

            Scars: None

            Birthmarks: None

            Tattoos: None

James “Jim” Allen Reece III, youngest son of steel magnate James Allen Reece Jr and Marion Olivia Reece nee Rogers, born June 22, 1966 in Philadelphia, PA. His parents died in a head-on collision on March 15, 1983. Upon their death, Jim was placed under the guardianship of his brother, David Edward Reece, who assumed control of Reece Steel Corp. After graduation, Jim enlisted in the Marines and became a member of the Magnificent Seventh with deployments in Saudi Arabia and Somalia. After an honorable discharge from the Marines, Jim attended Vanderbilt University and graduated Suma Cum Laude with a BA in Secondary Education. He has taught at high schools in Gallatin, TN, Ocala, FL and Lebanon, OH. David and James Reece were both listed on Forbes 400 Wealthiest Americans for 1998 at number 292 and 309 respectively. It is reported that each sibling is worth in excess of 1 billion dollars.

Dean blew out a breath and reached over for this coffee mug, bringing it to his lips as he maximized another screen. Staring at the picture of Ms. Goss next to today’s article detailing how police didn’t have any leads or suspects in her disappearance, the cup hovered over his bottom lip. He clicked back on Reece’s bio, knowing somehow the man had to have something to do with the missing teacher. He tilted the cup up and frowned, looking down into the empty depths. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he went to the coffee maker and poured a refill. 

At the sink, he looked past his reflection in the night black window and took a drink of the past its prime liquid. Reece was rich and smart. Ash had been at it for two days and still the information they had gathered was minimal. Bobby and Ellen were canvassing the woods around the gas station looking for the cabin Sam was held in, but there was no way to know how long Sam wandered before stumbling on the hunters. Caleb and Pastor Jim went to Reece’s home in Bedford in the hopes of finding something that might narrow the search or indicate where Reece might have gone next. Dean’s jaw tightened at what they found. 

Caleb sounded physically pained as he described the framed pictures of Sam – candids of Sam, obviously taken without his knowledge, both at school and around town – littering the surfaces of furniture and hanging on the wall. The article from the paper about the Mathlete regional final win hung on the refrigerator, the picture cut so that only Sam and Reece showed smiling for the camera. Hidden under the floorboard of the master bedroom closet, the images weren’t as innocuous. Grainy photos of Sam in the gym shower at school taken at an odd angle like through a high set window, dark photos of Sam sleeping taken around the sheet hanging over their bedroom window and fuzzy photos of Sam and Dean taken from a distance. Under the images was a Ziploc bag with cut hair the color of Sam’s, a pair of Central High gym shorts with SW in black marker on the tag and Sam’s favorite hoodie that turned up missing two weeks ago. Reece’s obsession with Sam wasn’t new; he’d been planning this for a while. 

Movement on the wooden privacy fence made Dean pause, glowing eyes turned toward him and stared. Not breaking eye contact, he reached for the pistol sitting snugly in his waistband and leaned to the side to flip the switch for the back porch light. Bathed in the amber glow of the bulb, a large tabby hissed at the sudden brightness and deftly jumped down into the neighbor’s yard. Shaking his head with a small chuckle, Dean replaced the gun and picked up his cup, taking another sip of his coffee.

“You need to update your information.”

Dean startled and lost his grip on the ceramic mug in his hands. The cup fell to the stainless steel sink and clattered around the bottom, thankfully not breaking, but spilling coffee on the counter and down Dean’s t-shirt. Grabbing a towel, he angrily rubbed at the brown stain on his shirt and turned to glare at the newcomer. “What?”

Yesterday, Bobby had modified a set of standard crutches to add a platform on the right one with a handle for Sam to rest his arm. Sam was able to wrap his uncasted fingers around the handle and take his weight on his elbow instead of his hand. It was awkward and frustrating for Sam, but he was ambulatory. Now, Dean wondered if the alteration had been a good idea. Sam stood behind Dean’s seat at the table, studying the open laptop with pursed lips.

“You should be asleep,” Dean admonished, wiping the coffee from the counter with the sponge on the sink.

“So should you,” Sam murmured absently as he stared unblinkingly at the screen.

“Yeah, well,” Dean walked over, his spread palm pushing the lid to the computer shut, “You’re still healing.”

Sam sighed and lifted the lid again. “You need to update your information. Reece has a tattoo of the Marine Corp emblem on his right inner forearm.”  Sam ran a finger over the cast covered portion of his arm.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I saw it when he… I thought it was Dad, that you and Dad had…” Sam trailed off, his eyes on the screen but focus elsewhere. Dean reached out for him, but before his fingers came in contact Sam blinked quickly and cleared his throat. “I don’t know about scars or birthmarks. I just saw the tattoo.”

Dean dropped his hand. He hated this limbo he’d found himself in. After rising from that morning of whispered horror and heartbreak there was a distance between them. Yeah, he and Sam had spent every waking moment over the last few days together, but there was an underlying awkwardness to it that didn’t exist before. Dean was uncertain how much to touch or if Sam wanted him to touch and Sam wasn’t offering any clues. “You should really try to get some rest.”

Sam yawned and knuckled his right eye, a gesture so reminiscent of a younger Sam that Dean had to remind himself that Sam was sixteen not six.  The left eye was still swollen, but the puffiness had receded enough that Sam could now see through the half closed lid. Both eyes were underlined by dark circles highlighting the fact that although Sam’s body and the chemicals coursing through it demanded he sleep, he wasn’t resting. 

Sam mumbled something that sounded like _all I do is rest_ and his lips turned down in a sleepy pout. “I came out to get some water.” He hobbled over to the sink and pulled a glass from the draining board. Filling it, he swallowed the contents down in one go and licked the lingering drops from his lips. 

Dean watched, forcing his thoughts away from Sam’s long throat working. His breathing hastened and blood began to divert. He tore his gaze away and chastised his body for even thinking about his brother that way right now.

“I guess I’ll go back to bed. Unless you want help with the research.” Sam rubbed his sore ribs where the crutch passed over them as it moved.

“Nah, Sammy,” Dean closed the laptop again. The last thing he wanted was for Sam to deal with the search for his tormentor. “I’m about to wrap this up anyway.” He took a chance and squeezed Sam’s shoulder gently. “Night, Sam.”

Sam nodded, eyeing the closed computer, and made his way to the doorway, his crutches making a rhythmic _thud shoonk_ noise Dean was surprised he didn’t hear earlier. At the opening, Sam turned and gave Dean a tired smile. “Night, Dean.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean lay on his back staring wide-eyed in the dark, the worn springs of the battered sofa he was using as a bed poking him in the back. Sam’s room was just big enough for the double bed the injured man was sleeping in and John insisted that Sam have the bed to himself so John and Ellen took the spare rooms upstairs while Dean and Bobby were relegated to worn sofas in the parlor. The last two nights had been the same, Dean staring at the ceiling waiting for dawn. His mind refused to settle and succumb; worried that Sam would disappear if he was less than vigilant. Dean listened to the popping and creaking of the old house settling, analyzing each sound for sinister origins before discarding it as a threat. The antique clock on the mantle ticked away each restless minute and Westminster chimes tolled out each sleepless hour. 

He perked his ears at a noise in the hallway and listened carefully. He heard it again and just as he was pushing away the covers and retrieving his gun from under the couch, a blue-white light filtered in from the living room across the way followed by the soft jingle for laundry soap. Heaving up from the worn down cushions, he tucked the gun in the waistband of his flannel pants and padded across the hall. 

The cheery jingle had been replaced with a familiar two tone tuba song and Dean smiled at the underwater depiction on the TV from a fish’s meandering point of view. Tilting his head, he peered over the back of the couch and found Sam curled up, glassy eyes staring blankly. Circling the couch, shuffling his feet so Sam would hear, he sat at the end opposite Sam’s head and lifted his brother’s legs into his lap. This had become their normal position, the most contact that Dean dared.

 A pyramid of water skiers zoomed across the screen, oblivious of the dorsal fin following in their wake. Dean rested his hand on Sam’s ankle and rubbed his thumb slowly back and forth across the knobby bone. “Jaws 2 was so much better. Roy Schneider frying that sucker to protect his boys is a classic. Fried fish all around.”

Sam was quiet for a long moment and Dean started to wonder if his brother actually heard him when Sam spoke softly, “Yeah, but this one was at Sea World _and_ it was in 3D so double bonus points.”

“True, but this one they just blow it up again like the first one. It’s like they couldn’t think of an original idea. They could have, I don’t know, sliced and diced it with that big fan thing. Shark sushi.”

Sam snorted quietly. “So the only good death is one you can turn into a dinner preparation.”

“That’s a lot of seafood to let go to waste, Sammy.” Dean said in his solemnest voice, a smirk playing over his lips.

They debated the qualities of the two movies a while longer, even throwing the original back in the fray. Finally, only able to agree that Jaws 4 was an abomination, the conversation died down comfortably and they watched the death count rise at the jaws of the megalodonic monster in companionable silence.  It was around the time that Sean Brody, the little brother that always reminded Dean of Sam, was in danger of being eaten that Dean looked over to find Sam asleep. 

Standing, Dean stared down at Sam before tugging the remote from the younger boy’s sleep slackened hands and turning off the TV. Dean carefully picked Sam up to carry him to his room.  A streetlamp in front of the house, filled the room with an orange glow, one of the reasons Dean didn’t take the more comfortable couch in here, and provided enough light for him to navigate the furniture. Laying Sam gently on the bed, he pulled the covers up and turned to leave when cool fingers encircled his wrist. 

“Stay?” 

Looking down at Sam’s trusting face, he nodded and moved around the bed. Tucking the gun from his waistband under the pillow, barrel to the wall and safety on, he crawled onto the mattress beside his brother. He scooted closer, lying on his side with a few inches between them. Burying his arm under the pillow, he wrapped his hand around the butt of his gun. Dean had just closed his eyes when those same cool fingers took his hand and pulled him closer. Taking the hint, Dean pressed against Sam’s side and curled protectively around the younger man. Sam’s body relaxed, melting into Dean.

“Sleep, Sammy. You’re safe.” He kissed Sam’s temple, the heat of his brother’s body lulling him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometime later, too dark for dawn but too light for the hour just beforehand, Dean woke as the hinge on the door creaked. He lifted his head and propped his upper body slightly on his elbow, the hand gripping the gun butt tightening. Careful not to move too much and reveal his motives, he rotated his forearm still hidden beneath the pillow 180 degrees so the muzzle no longer pointed to the wall but at the door. The oiled metal waited inconspicuously beneath the covers, pulled high around their chests, to be called into action. The hall light was on, backlighting the figure in the doorway. Slowly, Dean pulled back the hammer, the metallic click causing the figure to tense at the implied threat. Sam stirred at the sound and he squeezed the hand resting on Sam’s hip in reassurance. 

The person angled their body and the light spilled across their face. Dean stared into the cloudy green eyes of his father as the older man took in their position. Dean held his breath and the trigger.

John seemed stunned, frozen in the illuminated wedge of the open doorway. He licked his lips and opened his mouth, the intention to speak clear, but failed to force the words passed shock paralyzed vocal chords. Dean lifted the gun from beneath the blankets and made a show of releasing the hammer and placing under the pillow again. Once it was secured, he lowered himself to the goosefeather stuffed cotton and snuggled back into Sam, eyes closing and arm possessively crossing the younger man’s body. Sam sighed and burrowed closer, unconsciously seeking the safety and love of his brother. The click of the door echoed in the small room, but Dean was unconcerned. He’d deal with the fallout tomorrow. Tonight was about Sam.  

 

* * *

 

“Please explain again why I am up at the ass crack of dawn, Brown.” Agent Bullard slid into the booth of Doris’ Diner and picked up a vinyl covered menu, frowning at the greasy fare.

Looking up from the printouts he was leafing through, Brown yawned. “Reece is meeting us here at 7 and I wanted to brief you before he arrives. He picked the time, dude, not me.” He raised his hands in a mock sign of surrender.

“Riiiight. And how does an old Marine buddy of yours figure into some kid’s disappearance?” Bullard smiled at the waitress and ordered eggs and sausage with coffee, waiting patiently while his partner placed an order for pancakes and orange juice.

Shuffling through the papers Brown pulled one from the bottom and slid it across the Formica table top. “James Reece III, Jim to his buddies, has been under FBI investigation as a person of interest in the disappearance of three boys over the last four years.” He slid another paper across, a black and white picture of a dark haired boy with light eyes and the words MISSING across the top in bold print. “This is Jacob Havenner from Lebanon, Ohio, fifteen, member of the National Honor Society and captain of the soccer team. He disappeared October 13, 1995 walking home from school.  His body was found December 20, 1995 behind a local restaurant by kitchen staff taking out the garbage.“ He set down another paper similar to the first, but the boy appeared a little older and his hair a little lighter. “This is Jason Thomas from Ocala, Florida, seventeen, full ride scholarships to Yale and Harvard and lead running back for the football team. He disappeared December 6, 1996 during the town’s Christmas parade. His body was found March 13, 1997 on a local horse farm when the owner went for his morning ride.” Another sheet, this boy around the same age with hair that looked almost black. “This is Hunter Robbins from Gallatin, Tennessee, sixteen, head of his class and state champion tennis player. He disappeared November 21, 1997 from a varsity football game. His body was found February 12 of this year in a secluded section of a city park by morning joggers.”

Bullard picked up the Missing posters and looked at them carefully. “Random much? I mean, it’s tragic, but I don’t see the relevance.”

Brown ignored him, setting a photograph of a trio of boys in gym clothes, laughing and oblivious of the photographer. He tapped the boy on the left and leveled a hard gaze at his partner. “This is Samuel Winchester from Bedford, Indiana, sixteen, moved ahead a grade and scored a 1550 on his PSAT. No one has seen him since last Friday.”

“O-kay? Still needing help connecting the dots, man.” Bullard looked at the picture. Kid was cute, shining eyes and a bright smile that showcased deep dimples. 

Squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his head where a headache was forming, Brown sighed. He moved the MISSING papers so they lay side by side and set the picture of Sam above them. “All four boys were between 15 and 17 and exceptionally bright with above average athletic ability. They all disappeared on a Friday. These three,” he tapped the print outs, “were missing for around three months and their bodies were dumped after midnight. They were sexually and physically abused for months prior to being killed. The cause of death for each was massive internal hemorrhage resulting from blunt force trauma. Basically, they were beaten to death. “

“All right, I’m starting to see a pattern, but you can probably find one randomly pulling any three of our cold cases. What made you look at these?” Bullard could see the stress lines creasing his partner’s face, the crow’s feet deepened from lack of sleep. It was unlike Brown to get obsessed over cases.

“Reece,” Brown said grimly, gathering the pages and picture when the waitress brought their breakfast.  He thanked her and looked over at Bullard. “He taught at the high school all four boys attended at the time of their disappearance.  The AD brought these to my attention after the second boy, Thomas, was found. He knew that I served with Reece and thought I might have some insights. I have been chasing this bastard for two years with nothing to pin him to the missing kids. Guy’s wicked smart and cunning, the sneakiest SOB in our regiment and he’s good at covering his tracks. He’s like fucking Teflon, nothing sticks.”

“He can’t stay perfect all the time. He’ll screw up eventually. They always do.” Bullard speared a piece of sausage and pointed it at his partner for emphasis.

“I think he just did,” Brown cut his pancakes, swirling a bite in syrup, “He called me in a panic on Monday night saying his boyfriend had gone missing.” He chewed for a moment then continued, “His sixteen year old boyfriend.”

“Samuel Winchester,” Bullard murmured, glancing at the file Brown had stuffed the photo and computer pages in.

“Yep. Apparently the young Mr. Winchester was pretty resourceful and escaped.” Brown dropped his fork and shifted through a file, retrieving the security camera images from the gas station. “It looks like Samuel dragged his way through the forest and found help.”

Bullard took in the picture of the older gentlemen crowded around a boy on the ground then the one of them helping him into the car. “He looks in bad shape, Dustin.”

“I know. I’ve checked all the hospitals and clinics in a fifty mile radius of this gas station and no one fitting Samuel’s description has been admitted.”

“So if Reece is a person of interest in this kid’s disappearance then why are you working with the guy,” Bullard asked around a mouthful of eggs.

“Reece has a serious hard on for this kid. He’s cooked up some story about the kid’s brother and father being abusive.” Brown pulled a wanted poster from the file and set it on the table.

Bullard studied the mugshots as he took a sip of his coffee. “You believe him?” He looked up. “What are the booking photos from?”

“Petty shit. John was charged with assault and battery, but it was dropped. Dean was underage drinking and hustling pool. I think Reece knows that when we find Samuel he’ll be in rough shape and is being proactive with his alibi. This is some fucked up shit man. He keeps telling me that Samuel was ‘the one’ and is determine to find him. I just want to find the kid first.”

“So you’re keeping Reece close to keep an eye on him. Smart. What’s up with the wanted poster?” Bullard pushed his plate to the center of the table and picked up sheet with the mugshots.

“The Dad is an ex-Marine, too. He lost his wife, the kids’ mother, when Samuel was a baby and the authorities never found her killer. If my son was missing with that past and his training, I’d go searching myself. I’m using the poster to see if he and the brother have been to any of the places I’m looking without alerting Reece.” Brown threw his napkin down on his plate and pushed it next to Bullard’s.

“That’s why I always say you’re the brains of this operation. I’m just the beauty.” Bullard winked at waitress when she came to clear the dishes.

Brown opened his mouth to reply, but the waitress interrupted him. “You looking for those men?” She nodded her head towards the wanted poster in front of Bullard.

“Uh, yeah.” Brown’s forehead creased in confusion. “Have you seen them?”

“Um, well, yeah. They were in here over the weekend.” She was nervous, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “They do something?”

“No, no. We just want to talk to them about an ongoing investigation. You sure it was them?”

“Yeah, it was them. This one,” she tapped Dean’s smirking picture, “he looked heart-broken. I remember thinking that he was too pretty to be so sad.” Her expression was pitying as she remembered the two men.

“You said they were in over the weekend. Do you remember if it was Saturday or Sunday?” Bullard pulled a small notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket and jotted down the waitresses name, Emily.

She pursed her lips and her eyes narrowed. “Sunday. Definitely Sunday. The Lattimer twins were running around pretending to be Indians with their suit ties around their heads.”

“Did you happen to overhear anything they might have said?” Brown tried to school his features into the open, inviting expression the Bureau taught them to use on witnesses, but a quick glance at his watch had him edgy to finish the interview. Reece would be here any minute.

“I don’t know,” the woman bit her lower lip, “it was so noisy that day. I mean, we had twin six year olds running around whooping and hollering.” 

“Maybe you heard their conversation when you delivered or picked up their dishes?” Bullard prodded.

“Um, well, maybe,” she blushed guiltily, “they might have mentioned someone named Sam. Something about getting Sam back.”

“Anything else?” Brown saw Reece’s black SUV pull into a space in front of the diner. He rapped his knuckle on the table and tilted his head toward it when his partner looked over.

“Not that I can think of. Just Sam, getting Sam back. Look, I’m not in any trouble am I?” The dishes in her hand were rattling slightly with the tremors coursing through her arms.

“Of course not,” Bullard answered with a blinding smile. He wasn’t lying he was the beauty of their partnership. “You can’t help what you hear. Thanks for the information, Emily.”

A relieved smile passed over her lips and she turned to take the dishes to the kitchen. As she disappeared through the swinging door, a bell over the diner door signaled Reece’s entrance.

Reece made his way toward them, sliding in the booth next to his friend. “Morning, Dustin.”

“Good Morning, Jim. Jim, this is my partner, Chase Bullard. Chase, this is my friend, Jim Reece.” Brown quickly shoved the file containing the Missing posters in his briefcase while the other men exchanged pleasantries.

Reece picked up Brown’s discarded knife, holding it vertically by the handle with the tip down on the table. “So gentlemen,” he began to twirl the knife on its axis, “what news do you have for me on the search for my boyfriend?”

 

* * *

 

 

Dean woke to a beam of sunlight shining in his eyes and an empty bed. The sheets on Sam’s half were cold, little brother absent for a while. He stumbled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. Refreshed and relieved he went to the kitchen. Sam was on the computer at the table, fingers flying over the keyboard and screens opening and closing.

“Don’t let Dad catch you looking at porn on that thing, Sammy. He’ll take it away.” Dean zeroed in on the coffee pot, the promise of caffeine as strong as a siren’s song.

“I think I found something.” Sam looked up at his brother. “The property appraiser for Miami County, Kansas shows property registered to Jean Biche. That means…”

“John Doe in French. I’m aware. Sam, you shouldn’t be in here working on this. You need to rest, Sammy.” Dean walked over to where Sam was sitting and knelt between his legs. “We gotta’ get you all healed up. You gotta’ just take it easy until then.” He curled his hand around the back of Sam’s neck and tugged him forward until their foreheads touched. “Please.”

Sam sighed, “I can’t, Dean. He’s still out there. We have to find him.”

“We will Sammy, I promise, but I almost lost you. I just…you have to…” Dean cut off.

A throat cleared gruffly and the brothers snapped apart. Bobby walked past them, followed by Ellen. He went to the sink and dumped the dredges of his coffee down the drain before rinsing his cup and setting it in the basin. “We’re headed out. Going to check the cabins off of 169.”

“I think you should check out this property.” Sam turned the computer to show Bobby and Ellen what he found. 

“Jean Biche?” Bobby looked at Dean. “Isn’t that the name he used for his cell phone?”

“Yeah.” Dean sat in the chair next to his brother and ignored the raised eyebrow that Sam directed his way.

“Well, I say we head there first,” Ellen checked the battery on her phone and nodded at Bobby. She leaned over and kissed Sam on the head. “Rest today,” she ordered before turning to Dean. “Missouri has clients so try to help keep an eye on Jo for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He suppressed a groan at the thought of babysitting Jo. He needed to take care of Sam not dodge the amorous advances of a confused teenager.

He watched them leave, the curtains on the back door window still swaying when a gasp drew his attention to Sam. “What’s the matter? You hurt?”

Sam flicked wide eyes to Dean then back to the computer. The article Dean was reading yesterday about Ms. Goss’ disappearance filled the screen. “He killed her.”

“We don’t know that for sure, Sammy.”  He reached over and placed a comforting hand on Sam’s knee.

“She and Reece were…dating I guess. She kept staring at me with these looks like she wanted to say something to me. What if she figured out what Reece was going to do and was trying to warn me? What if he killed her so she couldn’t tell me?” Sam’s breaths were coming fast and erratic.

“Sammy, calm down.” Dean dropped to his knees again and cupped Sam’s face between his hands. “Calm down and breathe. This wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known. If he killed this Goss woman, it’s not your fault. Just like the delivery boy wasn’t. It’s Reece’s fault. He’s the one that’s caused all this death and pain, not you. Him, Sammy,” he shook Sam’s face gently, “not you.”

Sam sat very still for a moment, eyes staring at the picture of the beautiful teacher. He knew Reece killed her, knew it in his soul. Just like he knew that sooner or later Reece would have killed him. “We have to find him, Dean. He has to pay for everything he’s done.”

Pressing his lips to Sam’s in a lightning fast kiss, Dean smiled when Sam didn’t flinch away. Looking straight into hazel eyes, he vowed again. “We will, Sammy. We will.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

The Pinto bounced haphazardly down the rutted gravel drive, the unusually wet autumn washing the rocks away in certain places and forcing the tires to lose traction. Branches from the large oaks lining the winding path laced together overhead creating an interlocking canopy that obscured the bright autumn sunshine. Following a curve to the right, a clearing opened before them with a large log cabin situated at the center. The home was simply built, but the construction and materials betrayed the rustic design. The owner was someone with enough money to make new look realistically old. A late model Buick Skylark was parked near the porch stairs that led to the front door.

Ellen leaned forward taking in the house’s façade, squinting against the sunlight reflecting off the hood. “You think this is it?”

“Looks like the place Sam described.” Bobby’s eyes roved over the house and surrounding property assessing the danger. Finding none, he continued, “One way to find out.”

The Pinto’s doors creaked loudly in protest, scaring a pair of cardinals from a low lying limb. Ascending the stairs, Bobby paused near the top and crouched on the wooden step. Fingers ghosted over several round brown spots that had soaked into the untreated lumber.

“What is it, Bobby?” Ellen placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, brows drawn together in concern.

“Blood. Old from the looks of it.” His gaze drifted up and tracked the line of faded drops that led to the front door. Face reddening, he grunted as he rose and made his way to the large front door. Pounding his fist on the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, Bobby’s lips curled into a snarl.

Ellen stood slightly behind him and to the side, worried eyes taking in the hardened features of one of her oldest friends. When no one answered, she pulled a small leather pouch from her back pocket and shimmied her way between Bobby and the door.

A handful of heartbeats later the door swung wide. Pulling their guns from their hiding places, the duo entered the expansive space. To their left was a large living room with oversized leather furniture and a wide screen television and to their right was a combination kitchen/dining room with state of the art appliances and freshly scrubbed table. Bobby jutted his chin in the direction of the kitchen – a clear signal that he wanted Ellen to start there – and made his way into the living room. Stepping forward, Ellen’s foot caught on the edge of a throw rug just inside the door and she stumbled, catching herself before she could fall completely. She looked down where the rug had bunched under her clumsiness and noticed something underneath. 

“Bobby.” She knelt beside the rug and flung it back as the older man returned to the entry. A dark amorphous blotch marred the hardwood under the brightly woven rug , faded lighter in some areas like someone had tried to scrub away the staining fluid. 

“The delivery boy.” Bobby nodded, his face grim, sorrow etching each line deeper. Dean had relayed the majority of what Sam had told him, thankfully leaving out any details about Sam’s more private abuse, including Sam’s guilt over the death of a delivery boy. There was little doubt now that they had the correct cabin.

Closing her eyes for a moment to steel her against the other horrors they were likely to find, Ellen stood and went into the kitchen. Bobby stared at the dark spot, mind morbidly wondering if the kid died instantly or suffered until he bled out before he moved back into the living room. 

_Fucker was going to pay._

Ellen’s sweep of the kitchen uncovered very little except a small piece of broken porcelain near the drain of the sink and a strange hook set in the floor beneath the table. Wandering back to the living room, she stopped behind the couch and watched as Bobby picked up and set down several small framed pictures on the mantle.

“Find something?” She tried to keep her voice quiet, but it still startled the man and he dropped the photo in his hand, glass shattering when the frame hit the ground. 

“Balls,” he ground out, kneeling to pick up the picture and waving off Ellen as she rounded the couch to help.  A sliver of glass stabbed painfully into the pad of his thumb and he hissed, bringing the injured digit to his mouth. 

Ellen rushed forward, delicate hands tugging his forward. “Let me look.” She examined the small puncture and wiped away the newly formed bubble of blood. “Not too bad. We’ll see if we can find a band-aid.” Her gaze drifted from the calloused hand to the damaged picture still held loosely in Bobby’s other. 

The image was of two men, she assumed that Reece was one of them, standing in a stereotypical classroom each holding one side of a large blue trophy. Two fat, bright red drops of blood obscured the face of the other person and she carefully thumbed the warm liquid away. Under a faint sheen of smeared red Sam smiled at her, a gold medal hanging around his neck. She looked at Bobby then took in the other photos on the mantle. In each, Reece was posed with a young boy – all around Sam’s age – at various school sponsored events. One a dark haired boy in front of a banner for the National Honor Society, another a light haired boy in full football pads in the background a scoreboard showed _Ocala 64 Tillman 45_ and another of a black haired boy, racquet tucked under his arm, holding a red trophy with a gold tennis player on the top.

“How many do you think there were?” She asked, a coldness that had nothing to do with the November chill outside sliding down her spine.

“Don’t know. I think it’s safe to say at least four, with Sam. There could have been others.” He pulled his gaze from the mantle to the pale woman beside him. “You okay?”

Ellen inclined her head a little towards him, but couldn’t pry her eyes from the pictures of Reece with the young boys. Her mind spinning, wondering if these boys – these kids – suffered like Sam did and what their fate ended up being. “Yeah.” She nodded, gaze still fixed, “I’m fine.” Her voice sounded thin even to her own ears.

Bobby curled his index finger under her chin and forced her to turn to face him fully. “Ellen, I don’t know what all we’re going to find here, but it ain’t gonna’ be good. Maybe you should wait in the car.”

Her hazel eyes focused on him and she shook her head, forcing his finger from her face in the process. “I’ll manage.  Sam lived it, I just have to see it.”

Bobby paused, searching her face before setting the broken frame back on the mantle. “All right. Let’s get this done with before the bastard shows back up.”

They silently searched the rest of the house, taking note of the things that were awry – the eye hooks in the bathroom and beside the bed, the broken slat on the headboard, the vials of hospital use narcotics and benzodiazepines in the medicine cabinet.  Breaking the lock on the cabinet, Ellen found a box of band-aids and tended Bobby’s thumb. Seated on the closed commode lid as instructed, Bobby noticed something shiny in the wastebasket. Leaning over, he rooted around used tissues to find two halves of a silver ring. Closing his fingers over the metal semi-circles, he rose and shoved them into his front pocket. At Ellen’s quirked brow, he shook his head slightly and exited the small room.

  

Finally Ellen found herself standing before the locked door they’d purposely saved for last. Bobby hurried outside and returned with a crowbar, setting to work on the swing arm held fast by the padlock. Metal creaked and wood splintered as the screws on the swing arm were yanked from the door, the restricting metal hanging loose from the casing. She crouched down and slid the slim lock pick tools in the deadbolt and manipulated the lock open. 

They trod down the stairs cautiously and came to a standstill at the bottom. A nauseating mixture of smells met them – ammonia, musk and rust. An olfactory indication of what had transpired in this room. The basement walls were lined with various instruments and toys, some of which Bobby didn’t even want to contemplate too hard on the use of. It was enough to make any fetish club envious. A large table monopolized the majority of the space, a thick wood slab measuring close to eight foot square supported by stout legs with cuffs and more eye hooks set at each corner. The surface was discolored, a deep brown overlapped with varying shades of burnt red. New blood covering old. Bobby shuddered and gave the woman beside him a sidelong glance. 

Seeing his appraising look, Ellen nodded and moved to an ebony cabinet along one of the wall. Bobby moved around the room. A small scalpel lay discarded on the floor, the dim light glinting of the razor sharp edge that was stained from recent use. Bending to pick it up, he straightened at Ellen’s harsh gasp.

“What did you find?”

Ellen knelt before the cabinet, doors open like batwings, a large onyx box on the ground in front of her. Coming closer, he could see a stack of papers in her hand. She carded through them, eyes growing wider and more alarmed at each new sheet. Nearing the back, the stack fell from limp fingers that flew to cover her mouth. The sheets scattered across the concrete, spilling vibrant, glossy images over the dingy floor.

“Ellen?” Bobby approached, using his witness/victim voice.

Watery, hazel flickered from the ground to Bobby and her mouth opened around silent words. Squatting next to her, he picked up one of the pictures. The blonde boy from the photo upstairs was cuffed naked to a large bed, a round gag in his mouth and fear in his eyes. Bringing the image closer for a better inspection, he realized it was the same bed from upstairs. Scanning the other pictures collaged around them, he saw more of the blonde along with quite a few of the dark haired boys. Shots of the boys lying naked on the bed, tame in comparison, to others where Reece had made use of this room. It was when he caught sight of shaggy hair in a photo, partially hidden beneath others, that he understood what had horrified Ellen. Shifting the pile, more images of Sam appeared. A particularly graphic one of Sam prone on that table, vulnerable and mangled, forced a strangled sob from Ellen and bile to churn in his stomach. 

Gathering the photos, he hooked a finger over the edge of the box and slid it closer. Picking up the re-stacked pictures to put in the box, he noticed the items lining the bottom. Transferring the photos to one hand, he dumped the contents on the ground. Pictures tucked away in the newly emptied box, Bobby examined the other items. School IDs, award ribbons, locks of hair and newspaper clippings passed over his fingers. Ellen shook, eyes trained on the closed box like she could see the offensive images through the cardboard. 

Staring down at the school IDs, thumb tracing over the embossed name of the school and student, a hard smile twisted Bobby’s mustached lips. The bastard liked his mementos. There were several reasons Hunters traveled light. Less money to buy stuff, less room to store it, but above all, the less you owned the less people could track you with. If you only had one bag and a handful of possessions, you didn’t tend to leave things behind. 

Lifting the lid to slip the removed items back in the box, Bobby felt hope. They had a starting point, something to start building a profile with and once John Winchester had information it was only a matter of time before he found what he was looking for.

Standing, he handed the box to Ellen and gently grasped her elbows to heft her to her feet. She went willingly, still seemingly in shock over what she’d seen. A tear fell on the onyx top and she whimpered. Bobby pulled her close and stroked her hair as her frame shook under the onslaught of tears that found their release.

“It’s okay, Ellen. He’s safe now and we won’t let anyone hurt him.” He shushed her and soothed her sobs until they slowed, hand petting her head as he held her tight. “We have to go now and get this to John. We’ll make it right, Ellen. I promise, we’ll make it right.”

Her voice was muffled against his chest, her face pressed into the salt-damp fabric. When he loosened his grip on her head, she pulled back slightly to look him in the face. “We can never make this right, Bobby.” Water pooled on her lower lid and lashes, shimmering in the low light of the single bare bulb overhead. “We can only get those boys justice and hope they find peace.” She blinked and a tear followed the trail blazed by its predecessors over the swell of her cheekbone.

Bobby thumbed the drop away and cupped her face. They stared at each other for a long moment. As he leaned closer Bobby jerked, apparently realizing what he was doing, and dropped his hands from their tender grasp on her jaw. Clearing his throat, he stepped back and nodded toward the stairs. “We best get going.”

Ellen nodded, realizing the moment was over, and moved toward the stairs, more than happy to be out of Reece’s Little Basement of Horrors. Scrubbing a hand down his face, Bobby rolled his eyes and made to follow.

_What the hell was that about?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Reece paced the hotel room he was currently staying in from bathroom to door and back again. His phone was cradled between his head and shoulder as he counted the steps from one place to the other to calm his nerves. On the phone, the other man’s voice a constant noise over the crackled line. 

_You need to give us more time, Jim. It’s like the kid’s vapor or something. Disappeared into thin air._

**One, two, three, four.** “What about the surveillance footage from the gas station. Were you able to get anything off the plates on the car?” **Five, six, seven, eight**.

_The plates were registered to a salvage yard owner in South Dakota. Called the number and got some guy named Soot or Ash – I have it written down somewhere…_

 Reece heard papers being shuffled. **Nine, ten, eleven, twelve**. 

_Anyway, doesn’t matter. He said the plates were stolen about four months ago off one of the owner’s work trucks. We’re working on facial recognition on the guys that picked Sam up…_

**Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.** “Samuel,” He interrupted, turning at the door and heading back to the bathroom, the count beginning again. **One, two, three.**

_“What?”_

“Samuel,” Reece repeated. **Four, five** , “My boyfriend’s name is Samuel, not Sam. Sam is the name his filthy family called him. He’s mine now and they aren’t fit to lick _my_ Samuel’s boots.”

There was a moment of pregnant silence then, Brown cleared his throat. _My apologies, Jim. It was an oversight, a slip of the tongue. As I was saying, we’re working on facial recognition on the guys that picked_ Samuel _up, but the images were grainy to begin with and the computer is having trouble with identifying the landmarks needed to run the analysis._

**Six, seven, eight, nine**. “What about the credit card that was used at the gas station? Have you run a trace on the account?”

_Oh, um, the last transaction was at the gas pump. So either they’re staying somewhere close and haven’t needed to fill up again or they’ve switched to another card. Listen, Jim, did Samuel tell you anything about family or friends he might go to if he was in trouble? Someone he felt safe with?_

“No,” **Ten, Eleven, Twelve** , “The only person my Samuel felt safe with was me. I was his shelter from his family. I got him away.  You look into Emporia? I saw Dean there the Sunday before Samuel disappeared. Did anyone remember seeing him?” Reece diverted to the desk and picked up the folded piece of paper resting on the blotter.

_Yeah, I mean, no, I mean…Yeah, I looked into it and, no, nobody remembered seeing him. Look, Jim, we’re on top of this. I’ll call you as soon as we have any definitive leads on Samuel’s whereabouts._

“I understand, Dustin. Thanks for everything you’re doing.” Reece flipped his cell phone shut and tossed it on the bed, watching it bounce on the mattress. “Why do I think you’re holding out on me, old friend?”

Unfolding the sheet, he stared down at the Wanted poster he’d taken the other morning at breakfast. Smoothing out the creases, he studied the faces of the men that threatened what was his. If Brown and his too pretty partner wouldn’t help him then he would take matters into his own hands.

 

 

* * *

 

Dean busied himself making breakfast, a watchful eye on Sam as he typed and clicked on the laptop. Setting a stack of pancakes on the table, he settled into the chair next to his brother and forked a few onto each of their plates. He nudged Sam’s arm with the plate before placing it on the table – a subtle command to eat – and started cutting into his own buttermilk goodness. He glanced over at the computer, skimming the police report on Erin Goss’ disappearance that Sam was studying. Jo flounced into the room, followed by the sickly sweet scent of artificial strawberry and sat at the table across from him. She slid Sam’s untouched plate of pancakes closer, picking up the syrup Dean had set out with her other hand. 

“Breakfast. Awesome!”

Snake strike quick, Dean’s fork came down hard on the porcelain dish, tines scraping across the surface with a goosebump inducing screech, and prevented it from going further. Sam pried his eyes from the police narrative detailing the friends and family interviews to see his brother and the blonde girl he’d met in passing having a silent stand-off.

“That’s Sam’s. Plates are in the cabinet. You can serve yourself.” Using the fork, Dean slid the plate over to Sam again, giving the younger boy a stern look of warning. Sam shifted the laptop to the side and moved the plate in front of him, cutting his breakfast.

Dean relaxed when Jo shrugged and crossed to the cabinet to retrieve a plate of her own. Tucking back into his food, he vaguely registered her sitting down again and filling her plate. Now that the computer was closer, he could read the BPD report. A note at the bottom mentioned another disappearance they believed related to the current case, a link glowed blue among the surrounding black letters. Chewing a large bite, he grunted at Sam and pointed at the link with his fork. As they waited for the new page to load, Dean glanced up to find Jo regarding them with an appraising look. Quirking an eyebrow at her in obvious challenge, she refocused her attention to her pancakes. Finishing quickly, she set her dish in the sink and left the brothers alone. 

“What was that about?” Sam asked around his bite of breakfast.

“No clue,” Dean answered, mind listening to the distant sound of the daytime talk show that Jo had turned on in the living room.

The new page loaded and Sam gasped, forcing Dean’s attention back to the screen. A recent headshot of Reece, probably taken by the high school for the yearbook, filled the left side of the screen accompanied by his demographics on the right. Reece was a little heavier than his Marine picture and he had a touch of gray at his temples. Dean stared at the image, a sense of familiarity washing over him, deja vu that teased his mind.

Beside him, Sam dropped his fork and knuckled his eyes, jaw cracking on a large yawn. Picking up the utensil again, he sluggishly pushed his remaining pancakes around in the pool of syrup obviously done and playing. Gathering their plates, Dean washed them along with the pan and Jo’s dirty dish and set them in the strainer.

“Come on, Sasquatch, nap time.” Twisting, he snatched Sam’s crutches from the corner behind them and pushed Sam’s chair back from the table with the toe of his boot.

Sam blinked at him sleepily, protest dying on his tongue at the determined look on his brother’s face. Ducking his head, he nodded and slowly levered up from the chair, balancing on his good leg until as Dean helped him position the crutches.

“Couch or bed?”

Leaning back to look in the living room, Sam scrunched up his face. “Bed, I guess. I’d prefer the couch, but I think Jo’s watching Jerry Springer,” he sighed.

Rolling his eyes, Dean ushered him into the living room. Jo was curled up on the overstuffed chair painting her toenails hot pink. Passing by, Dean snagged the remote, ignoring her squawk. 

“Hey, I’m watching that!”

He carefully lowered Sam on the couch, laying his crutches on the floor against it so they’d be in easy reach. Plopping down next to him, Dean replaced the woman screaming about her cheating boyfriend sleeping with her sister with a rerun of Matlock.

“Change it back, Dean.” Jo pointed at him with the nail polish brush.

“Jo, I could care less if that guy wanted to boink that chick and her sister,” Dean pressed the button, the lawyer show changing to a soap opera. Cringing, he quickly moved on to a fishing show. “Hell, he can do the mother and grandmother too for all I give a shit. I’m not watching it.” Sam slumped heavily against his side, eyes hooded and underlined by dark circles. 

“You’re not the only one living here, you ass. You don’t get to decide everything.” Jo jammed the top back on the bottle of polish and viciously twisted it on. 

“Yeah, well, your mom left me in charge of you and I think Mr. Springer is a bad influence.” Getting up, remote tucked in his back pocket, Dean helped Sam situate his uncooperatively casted limbs so he could stretch out over the length. Lifting Sam’s head, he slinked on the couch and laid it across his lap. Shifting, he pulled the remote out with a triumphant look. He cycled through a few more channels – a sitcom, a pre-school show, a cooking demonstration – with one hand and carded his fingers through Sam’s hair with the other.  

“Dean?” 

Dean’s head snapped up at the soft, playful tone of his name. He’d heard it said that way many times in Sam’s smooth voice, the pitch a subtle hint of Sam’s intention, but this time instead of his brother’s tenor, the word came in a lilting soprano. 

Jo was giving him a coy smile, the tip of her finger, hot pink as well, traced the flowered pattern of the upholstered arm. She looked up at him through lowered lashes. “Please can you turn it back? For me?”

Dean could feel the wrinkles forming on his forehead as his face twisted in confusion. He felt like he had whiplash. One minute she was calling him an ass and the next she was flirting?! Petting Sam’s hair back from his face and Dean leaned closer, pointedly ignoring Jo’s request. “See anything you wanna’ watch, Sammy?”

Sam’s eyes slid closed and he leaned into the touch, shrugging his shoulders in answer. Smiling, Dean heard Jo make a sound of disgust.

“Please let’s make sure that frail little Sammy gets to watch what he wants,” she grumbled, arms crossing over her chest and bottom lip poking out in a pout.

“What was that?” Dean puffed up, hand in Sam’s hair stilling.

“What’s goin’ on in here?” Dean and Jo turned to see Missouri standing in the doorway, glaring at the two of them.

“We-I,” Dean stammered under her disapproving gaze.

“We-I nothing. You two quit that bickering. You sound like a couple of children. Now, I have a customer that I am trying to help and Sam is trying to sleep,” Dean looked down to see his brother had indeed fallen asleep, “so keep quiet and behave yourselves.”

“But, Missouri, Dean stole the remote and won’t let me watch Jerry Springer,” Jo whined. If Dean wasn’t interested earlier that tone right there would have clinched it.

“For Heaven’s sake, is that what this is about?” She stalked over to Dean and held her hand out for the remote. Automatically, Dean handed over the black plastic. Missouri punched in a few numbers and set the remote on the coffee table, a smug smile on her lips. “There, something suitable for you. You let that poor boy get some rest, ya’ hear?” Dean tracked her out of the room and smirked as the theme song for Scooby Doo started. _Couple of children_.

Jo glared in the direction of the parlor where Missouri was holding her session with her newest customer. She sneered at the cartoon dog on the screen, stood and marched out. Sam stirred at the sound of her bedroom door slamming, but didn’t wake.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was in the same position when John came into the living room a few hours later, his presence in the house throughout the day noticeable only in its absence. He dropped into the armchair Jo had occupied earlier and considered his sons. Scooby Doo had long since finished and now Dean was watching re-runs of Transformers, his fingers gently combing out the tangles in Sam’s sleep-mussed hair. 

“So,” John started, fidgeting uncomfortably in the seat, “you, um, you and he, uh…,”

Locking eyes with his father, browner than his yet greener than Sam’s, Dean held the gaze unblinkingly. “Whatever you’re going to ask the answer is yes.” Dean answered calmly, conversationally like they weren’t talking about incest and wrong and taboo. In his lap, Sam whimpered, one of many times since falling asleep, and turned his face into Dean’s stomach. Dean shushed him quietly and awaited his Dad’s reaction.

John scrubbed a hand down his face and over his chin. A week’s worth of coarse stubble shadowed his jaw and cheek and rasped against his palm.  “How long?”

Dean eyed him warily. He’d expected the immediate reaction to be more…explosive. “Does it really matter? Long enough that we’re sure this is what we want.” Outside brakes squealed as a car pulled into the driveway.

“Dean, I don’t know how to feel about this. You know it’s not right, right? I mean, you know that much, don’t you?” John leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees and hands clasped loosely together. His eyes begged Dean to reassure him that he hadn’t completely failed in his parental duty to instill some sense of morality in his children.

“Dad, I…” Dean’s sentence was cut off by the front door opening and Bobby and Ellen bustling in with a black lacquer box.

“We found the cabin,” Bobby grumbled, shucking his coat and turning to help Ellen with hers.

“Was it wh-where,” Sam yawned, raising up on his elbows, “I said it was?”

Ellen’s eyes flashed to Sam then to Bobby. “Yeah, Sam, you did real good, sweetie.” She set the box down on one of the side tables and threw her jacket over it.

“Reece was gone. Place was pretty much cleaned out.” Bobby helped Sam’s effort to sit up, swinging his broken leg from the cushion to the floor and taking the now vacant end of the couch. Dean noticed Ellen’s hand smooth her jacket over the square shape, an odd mixture of expressions on her face.

“Did you find anything?” John pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb.

Bobby hesitated. It was a fraction of a moment too long and if Dean didn’t know the man as well as he did, he might have missed it. Dean’s eyes flashed to the covered box as Bobby answered, “Nothing pertinent.”

“Is anybody hungry? I think I’ll go check on Jo then fix dinner.” Ellen hurried from the room.

Clearing his throat gruffly, John looked over at Dean, whose arm was draped over Sam’s shoulders, tucking his little brother protectively against his side. Sam was blinking owlishly, gaze bouncing from each adult, aware he was the elephant in the room. “Dean, toss me that remote. I think Kansas is playing today.”

A couple quick flicks of the channel and John settled on the football game, ending Sam’s curiosity before it could be verbalized.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean lay in bed that night, arms a flesh cage around Sam’s sleeping form. His stomach churned, threatening to waste Ellen’s good cooking. After Sam went to bed, spending the rest of the night after dinner with the wizarding book he’d borrowed from Jo, Bobby and Ellen showed John, Dean and Missouri the contents of the box. Pictures of three young boys in vulnerable and humiliating poses littered Missouri’s kitchen table and Dean’s anger grew with each image. He stood to get a beer from the fridge, craving the soothing effects of the alcohol, and accidentally kicked the onyx box Bobby had placed on the floor. It tipped on its side and more photos skittered across the scrubbed tile floor.

Dean scooted closer to Sam’s back, his arms tightening their hold on the young man in their embrace. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sam spread on navy blue sheets, cuffed and violated, or on that damned wooden table, chained and bleeding. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of Sam’s neck.

 _How was Sam even functioning_? Dean was destroyed from seeing the photographic evidence.

A sound down the hall caught his attention and he tensed, hand sliding up to the gun under his pillow. He heard a glass thunk on what he assumed was the dining room table followed by the clank of glass on glass. He stared at the ceiling, he knew that sound, had heard it on too many late nights throughout his childhood. The house was deathly quiet and he listened to the bottle being emptied, a series of thunks with clanks interspersed sporadically.

He lost count of the number of refills, mind making patterns in the popcorned drywall on the ceiling. He lifted his head when soft cries drifted through the cracked open door. Dean felt sucker-punched. His stomach, that only minutes before roiled dangerously, now ached from the phantom blow. His mind refused to accept that the person drinking themselves into a sobbing stupor in the kitchen was his father, even though the noises matched John’s MO.

“I’m so sorry, Mary. Forgive me, baby. I tried so hard to protect them, but I failed. I’m so sorry.”

Dean wasn’t sure if John was referring to the pictures Bobby and Ellen brought back or the recent revelations about his sons’ relationship. The muttered apologies to a long dead mother continued and Dean buried his face into Sam’s soft locks, humming her songs of comfort into the hair of the son that would never know her.

Sam shifted, a small whine escaping parted lips. He thrashed then startled awake, chest heaving.

“Sssh, Sammy. I got you. I got you.” Dean rubbed his hand over Sam’s stomach in wide circles and fluttered soft kisses to his neck and shoulders.

Sam twisted, pushing Dean’s restraining arm from around him. He huffed in frustration as he tried to move his leg and turn toward his brother. Finally facing Dean, his fingers scrabbled over his brother’s chest and fisted in his shirt. Dean brought his hands up to cup Sam’s shoulders and started when warm lips, so familiar and so missed, pressed against his. Dean surrendered to the kiss for a selfish minute then gently pushed Sam back.

“Sammy,” he whispered, “It’s all right. I’m here. You’re okay.”

Sam lunged forward again. Dean countered the movement, leaning back. “Sammy, don’t you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Please, Dean. Please.” Dean stared into his brother’s eyes, shining in the dim moonlight. The normal bright hazel was clouded by fear and pain.

Dean closed the distance between them and sealed his mouth over Sam’s. He gave in and let his brother lead, guide them where he needed them to go. Dean’s arms came around the smaller frame and held on loosely, careful of the injuries still littering Sam’s body. A small part of him thrilled at the intimacy, the proof that Sam still wanted what they had after everything that had happened to him. He knew they wouldn’t progress further than kissing, him allowing Sam to take the affirmation and comfort he needed in the gentle press of lips, but there was promise that one day they’d find their way back. The sound of wet kisses drowned out the muttered sorrow from the other room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Reece lifted the Styrofoam cup to his lips, blowing on the hot liquid through the opening in the plastic lid, and took a long drink of the rich Colombian brew. Soft country music rang clear and sweet from the dash and door speakers, Reba McEntire and Linda Davis in a duet about the true affections of the same man. Setting the cup in the console holder, he changed the station until Freddie Mercury’s voice declared Queen champion of the world. 

He sang the familiar lyrics out loud in an effort to keep his eyes open and mind awake. He was almost there and then he could stop for the night. _I consider it a challenge before the whole human race - And I ain't gonna lose –_ Passing a green sign – **Lawrence City Limits** – he smiled and pulled into the first hotel he found.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

It was just after eight and Sam was still asleep. Despite their late night make out session, it was the longest and most peaceful rest Sam had gotten since he was kidnapped. Dean untangled his limbs and slipped out of the bed and room quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping boy. He made his way to the kitchen, following his nose to the promise of caffeinated nirvana. He stopped just inside the entry, his father at the table stuffing clothes and ammunition into an oversized duffel. John was on the phone with his back to him, his gruff voice carrying a no-nonsense tone.

“That’s right. Jacob Havenner from Lebanon, Ohio. You and Caleb go and see what you can find from the family. Dean and I will head out this morning.”

Nodding a silent hello, Dean crossed to the coffee pot and poured a cup of the dark liquid, ears perking at the mention of his name. 

“Yeah. Call if you find anything. Oh, and Jim? None of your preacher man stuff. I want this fucker dead.” John snapped his phone shut and roughly tugged the duffel’s zipper shut.

Turning to face his father, Dean took a sip from his mug. “We going somewhere?”

“Yeah, we’re going to Gallatin to check out that Robbins kid. Ash is doing his hacker thing, but an electrical storm took out most of the telephone lines for a ten mile radius around The Roadhouse. He’s down until the phone company can get everything back up and running. So pack your stuff, I want to leave within the hour.” John folded some printouts and stuffed them into his leather bound journal.

“No,” Dean said calmly, looking over the rim of his cup. 

John stopped leafing through the handwritten pages and raised a shocked eyebrow at his son. “No?” He could probably count on one hand the number of times Dean had said that to him.

“No,” Dean repeated simply. “I’m not leaving Sam.”

Ignoring Dean’s statement, John harshly shut his journal. “Dean, this isn’t up for discussion. I may need back-up if I run into this Reece guy. We don’t know what kind of demon is possessing him.” 

Dean crossed is arms, the warm mug resting on his left forearm. “Sam says he’s human, but if you think you need back-up take Bobby. He’s as good a hunter as I am and better at the witness and research part.” Dean narrowed his eyes.  This conversation was coming so Dean might as well get it over with. “Unless there’s another reason you want to separate me from Sam.” 

John’s face betrayed his emotions for a fraction of a second, his sons the only thing that could make the stoic mask falter. In that brief glance, Dean saw the fear and worry, underlined by a hint of disgust and guilt, that lay underneath the patina of control and calm that the older Hunter usually wore. Dean leaned back against the counter, crossed his ankles and raised his eyebrows in expectation.

John growled softly in frustration, scrubbing a hand down his face. He shoved his battered journal in his knapsack and pulled a folded map from its depth. “Then bring Sam with us. Now go get your gear packed. I still want to leave before nine.” John unfolded the map and spread it across the table.

Sam paused in the hallway just outside the kitchen, thankful the plush carpet muted the sounds of his crutch hobbled gait. He sighed, head hanging as his battered body began to ache at the idea of being in the car.

 “No,” Dean said for the third time and Sam’s head snapped up at the defiance in his brother’ steady voice. “Sam’s still too weak to be traveling. He has a doctor’s appointment in a few days and if Doc Evans clears him then Sam can decide if he wants to go.”

“ _Sam_ can decide?” It was John’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “That’s not how this works, Dean.”

“It is now,” Dean set his mug on the counter and rose to his full height. 

They stared at each other in tense silence and Sam stared at both of them from his hiding place. His mind flashed to the Physics homework he’d been doing when Reece nabbed him at the bar. Unstoppable forces meeting immovable objects.

“You’ve never stood up to me before.” John sounded amazed and for the first time in Sam’s life, his father conceded. Nodding his head, the corners of John’s mouth pulled up in the vaguest hint of a smile. He tossed his duffel on the ground and sat in the chair it had previously occupied. Elbows resting on his knees, he snorted a small laugh and tilted his head to the side, considering his oldest son. “You really love him don’t you? I mean…” John’s smile fell a little and he shifted uncomfortably, “love him like, you know?” He waved his hand back and forth.

“Yeah, Dad, I do.”

“You know that if this goes bad, it’s gonna go all the way bad.” John’s smile was completely gone now, his face serious.

“I know,” Dean’s expression mirrored his father’s. He waited for the older man to deliver the blow that would tear their family apart.

“Then I don’t suggest you let it go bad.”

Dean’s eyes widened and leaning against the wall, out of sight, Sam felt his do the same. “Dad?”

 “Dean, I trust you to take care of Sam. I always have. I’m not going to pretend that I understand it. God, do I _not_ understand it.” John knuckled his eyes, tired and red from staying up too late with his old friend, Jack. “Just…just don’t get hurt and don’t hurt him.”

“I won’t.” It wasn’t just a promise, it was a Dean promise and Sam knew his brother would move Heaven and Earth to make sure he kept it.

John knew it too. He blew out a long breath and clapped his hands on his knees, hefting up out of the seat. “Good. I guess I better get Bobby’s crotchety ass moving if he’s coming with me.”

Sam stumbled backwards down the hall not wanting them to know he was listening. He moved toward the kitchen slowly, making it appear he’d just woken up and was only now heading in for breakfast. He smiled at his brother’s snark echoing around the corner.

“Bobby’s crotchety ass?” He could picture the smart-ass look on Dean’s face.

“Watch it, boy. I’m not sure I like this new attitude.” John kidded and Sam almost swallowed his tongue. John never joked or laughed and so far this morning he’d done both. Pair that with his newfound accepting attitude and Sam had the overwhelming urge to go outside to check if the sky was falling.

Sam entered the kitchen just as his father was leaving. “Morning, Sammy.” John patted his youngest’s shoulder and went in search of his old friend.

“Morning, Sammy,” Dean echoed from his place against the counter. “I guess you heard all that.”

Sam flushed red at being caught. “How’d you know?”

“You may be a great hunter Sam, but don’t ever forget who taught you everything you know.” Dean tossed him that casual grin of his that Sam knew opened locked doors and turned heads.

Sam returned it with his own dimpled one that Dean swore was impossible to resist. “Never, Dean, never.”

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later, Dean sat in the waiting room of Dr. Evans’ small office, flipping through the pages of a hot rod magazine that was miraculously only three months old. Next to him Sam watched the colorful tropical fish swim back and forth in the salt water aquarium that spanned a large portion of one wall. Sam’s left leg bounced nervously, shaking not only his chair but Dean’s as well, and his right thumb tapped a staccato beat against the fiberglass cast on his other leg. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see straight white teeth worrying the tender flesh of his bottom lip.

Even with Sam looking like he was about to vibrate apart with the excess energy, Dean decided to count it as a win. This was the first time Sam had left Missouri’s house since he arrived and Dean was expecting a lot worse. 

A large man, nose blotched red and a crumpled tissue in his hand, entered and signed in at the registration desk. He turned and surveyed the available seating and, eyeing Sam curiously, headed for the empty seat on Sam’s other side. Dean tracked his progress as he made his way around the low tables stacked with outdated magazines and clusters of other patients awaiting their turn. 

“Damn, son, you get the model of the truck that hit you?”  The man jokingly asked, standing in front of Sam’s casted leg.

Dean knew Sam’s body was still a testament to the abuse he’d suffered at Reece’s hand. The bruises on his face were slowly morphing from the original dark purple to the healing tones of yellow and green.  His breathing was a little deeper each day as his injured ribs mended and the antibiotics cleared up the pneumonia. That didn’t even take into account the two fiberglass casts acting like flashing yellow signs. Although Dean saw this as a sign of Sam on the mend, it had to be a little disconcerting to an outsider.

Sam visibly shrunk back into the padded vinyl chair, eyes dropping to the floor and breathing speeding up.  Sweat beaded his upper lip and his left hand held the arm of the chair in a death grip. This was more what Dean had been expecting for their first outing. He placed a comforting hand on Sam’s knee, squeezing to emphasize the gesture.

The man’s brows drew together in confusion, eyes taking in Sam’s posture. His gaze flicked from Sam to Dean’s hand to Dean then back to Sam.  Dean fixed a lighthearted grin on his face.

“You should see the other guy. Right, Sammy?” He shook the hand on Sam’s knee, jostling the leg side to side.

Sam nodded jerkily, hands balled loosely at his sides and breathing controlled, in through his nose and slowly out through his mouth. The nosy guy continued to watch Sam carefully and Dean’s smile hardened, turning from jovial to unfriendly in the tightening of muscles. When the guy didn’t seem to notice Dean cleared his throat.

Blinking, the guy pulled his eyes from Sam back to Dean. Clearing his own throat he smiled. “Feel better, son.” He walked away, passing the empty chair next to Sam to one across the room. Sam’s body relaxed once the man was out of range.

Dean squeezed Sam’s knee once more, patted it and opened the magazine up to the article he’d been reading. Sam took a deep, shaky breath and Dean cut his eyes to the side. “Not gonna’ let anyone hurt you Sammy.”

“I know, Dean.” Sam leaned against the hard wooden arm of the chair and, looking over Dean’s shoulder, lazily read about the evolution of the Mustang.

 

* * *

 

Corrine topped off Mr. Phillips’ coffee, looking up when the small bell over the door jingled. A tall stranger made his way to the counter, slithering on the red padded stool with a confidence and grace the regulars rarely possessed. She slid the decanter on the warming coil and tried to casually smooth down her fly-away hair and wrinkled apron. Pulling her pad from the front pocket of her still crumpled apron, she smiled widely and approached her newest customer.

“Morning! Can I start you off with some coffee or juice?”

“Coffee, please. Black.” The guy glanced up, returning the smile. His strange eyes a color that was hard to pinpoint in the fluorescent light of the diner.

“Can do. I’ll get that for ya’ and let you finish looking over the menu.”

“Thanks, Corrine.” Her heart leapt that he knew her name until she remembered the hard plastic square on her chest that told everyone and their brother her name. Blushing, she nodded and went to get the coffee.

She set it in front of him and visited the other patrons, checking the level of their beverages and happiness. The stranger laid his menu on the counter and pulled a folder from a dark leather attaché case she hadn’t notice him place on the stool next to him. He shuffled through the contents, sipping his coffee. She made small talk taking his order, refilling his coffee and bringing him his Eggs Benedict all with the pretense of spending more time with him. If the handsome guy noticed her attempts to extend their interactions, he didn’t mention it.

“What are you studying so hard?” Warming his coffee up for the sixth time, she jutted her chin toward the papers he was continuously leafing through. 

“Oh, um, I’m searching for someone.” He absently nodded his gratitude for the top off.

“Searching for someone?” She repeated. “What are you the FBI or something?” She grabbed his empty plate, taking in his expensive dark suit.

“Actually,” the guy reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and retrieved a small leather case. With a flick of his wrist a badge and identification card were visible and Corrine was able to catch the name before he closed it. “I am.”

“Oh, wow, FBI,” she stammered. “So this person you’re hunting for…you think he’s around here?”

“I believe so.” He pulled a photo of a teen-aged boy sitting cross-legged under a large oak tree from a pocket on his case and held it out for her to see. “Have you seen him?”

She reached out for the picture to examine it closer, eyes flicking to the agent when he pulled it away, and shook her head. “Did he…did he do something bad?”

An odd smirk crossed the man’s face at her question. “Nothing against the law,” the agent answered without elaboration, tucking the image back into this case. He pulled two sheets from the pile on the counter and turned them toward her. “What about any of these men?”

These he allowed her to pick up and she scrutinized them carefully. “This guy,” she pointed to the older man in the Wanted posted, “and I think this guy,” she tapped the bearded man in the grainy surveillance photo, “were in here the other day. I remember because I thought I heard the dark haired one say something about guns and it scared me.”

The handsome agent perked up at this, smile growing to encompass his whole face. “They say anything else. Maybe something about where they were staying or about someone named Samuel?” 

“Not that I heard. I kinda’ gave them a wide berth.” She blushed. “Sorry.”

The corners of the man’s oddly hued eyes tightened in frustration. “That’s okay, Corrine. I understand.” He forced a smile and patted her hand stiffly before stuffing the paper brusquely back into his case. “You think I could get my check?” 

“Oh, of course,” she jumped slightly at his change in disposition and tore his ticket from her pad, “I really am sorry, Agent Biche.”

Checking the tab, Reece threw a twenty down and nodded tightly at the stupid girl behind the counter. “You did great. Don’t worry about it.” He winked at her, watching her blush again, and turned to leave, rolling his eyes. At least the cheery idiot was able to tell him he was on the right track. If John Winchester was here then Samuel couldn’t be far behind.

Reece pulled the door open, bell above signaling his departure, and blinked against the harsh winter sunshine. He climbed into the seat of his SUV and took a deep breath. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost still smell Sam on the interior. Opening his eyes, he jammed his keys into the ignition and started the engine.  Stopped at the exit of the parking lot, he waited for a black car to pass so he could pull onto the main road. He watched the vehicle approach, eyes narrowing as it neared.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” As the car passed, he caught a glimpse of shaggy brown hair through the passenger window.

Maneuvering his SUV onto the road he trailed the black classic car, keeping several vehicles between them, but not losing sight of the squared off taillights. The car stopped in front of a white house and Reece drove past, parking a few houses away. In the side mirror he saw the driver door open and Dean emerge, rounding to the passenger side where the door already stood open. Crutches were passed out and then Reece saw him. “Gotcha.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ellen stirred the beef stew on the stove when Dean ushered Sam back in from his doctor’s appointment. She turned, setting the spoon on the ceramic stone next to the pot, and smiled brightly. “How’d it go?”

“Good.” Sam smiled sheepishly, moving toward the kitchen chair that Dean was holding out for him. He’d grown really fond of Ellen in the last week, the epitome of what he believed a mother should be…caring, loving, kind. She exuded a comfort that he loved. “Stitches are all out and look.” Sam held up his right hand, previously immobilized in a full cast extending half-way up his forearm, to show the new splint that taped his broken ring finger to his pinky giving him use of his wrist again.

“That’s wonderful,” she beamed, drying her hands on the dishtowel hanging from the oven bar.

“And even better,” he stuck his leg out from under the table for her to see that the full leg cast had been replaced with a below the knee version. “I can move my knee again.”

“Yeah, the doctor says he’s healing really well. Doc Evans thinks a couple more weeks for the finger and probably four months total for the leg which is two months less than he originally said.” Dean set Sam’s crutches in the corner and pulled out the chair next to his brother, an oddly proud look on his face. “Kept telling everyone you were an overachiever.”

“Jerk.” Sam murmured, bumping their shoulders.

“Bi-“ Catching Ellen’s disapproving eye, he amended, “Uh, dork.”

“Sam, that’s just fantastic,” Ellen gushed, crossing to him and dropping a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Any excitement around here today?” Dean idly twirled the glass salt shaker round and round over the red checkered tablecloth. There hadn’t been any communication from the other hunters and each successive day without contact made Dean increasingly nervous.

“Um, yeah,” Ellen moved back to the stove, picking up the spoon to stir the stew again, “Your Daddy called not long after you left. He and Bobby are heading back today. Jim and Caleb are going to check out Reece’s brother in Philadelphia before coming here.”

“Did they find anything out about those kids?”

The spoon’s next revolution faltered and Sam’s hands tingled with the phantom ache of restraints as realization struck. “He killed them.”

There was a long pause then Ellen sighed and set the spoon down again. “Yeah. The boy in Florida too. Ash called after I talked to your Daddy. He’s up and running again and checked into him. His body was found this last spring.”

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, both knowing that by just surviving Sam provided a much greater challenge to Reece. It was only a matter of time before he came looking for the one that got away. Dean picked up a stack of printouts that Sam had been reviewing before they left for his doctor’s appointment. He stopped at the profile Ash had constructed.

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would a guy with all that money kidnap and kill all these kids? I’m sure there is a line of people willing to su-,” he caught himself, “be with him. What’s the point?”

“Power, mainly.” Ellen sat in one of the vacant chairs. “Some people crave control and are willing to go to extremes to get it.”

“But that’s what I mean. He has money, power, influence.”

“It’s not the same,” she answered, “It’s different having total control over a person. Money doesn’t rebel, doesn’t question your authority so you can never truly dominate it.”

“He never let on he had money,” Sam spoke quietly, “I don’t think he wanted people to obey him because he was rich, he wanted them to obey because he said so.”

“Sam’s right. Money holds no significance for him. The man drove an old Buick Skylark for crying out loud.”

Dean’s head jerked up from the stack of information in his hands. “What did you say?”

Ellen startled at his reaction and Sam quirked a brow. “I-I said he drove a Buick Skylark.”

“What year?”

“Um, I don’t know. Mid-seventies, I think?” Ellen’s eyes narrowed, “Why?”

Dean quickly shifted through the papers, pulling the one with Reece’s current picture out and setting it on top of the pile. “Son of a bitch!”

“What is it, Dean?” Sam leaned forward to see what his brother was looking at.

Dean slammed a hand down over the picture of the man he’d been working to find. “I knew this guy looked familiar. Dad and I saw him in Emporia while Sam was missing. He was from here to there,” he pointed his finger at himself and then at the door, “from us.” The moment the thought occurred to him, his blazing eyes tempered and his anger subsided. He slid off his chair to kneel at the ground between Sam’s legs. “Oh God, Sammy. He was right there. I should have…Oh God. I’m so sorry.”

Sam didn’t say anything for one long heart stopping minute then put reassuring hands on Dean’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault.” He refused to offer false placation by telling Dean it was ‘okay’. They both knew nothing about this was ‘okay.’ “There’s no way you could have known.”

Dean turned wet green eyes up to his brother, neither realizing when Ellen excused herself, and cupped Sam’s jaw. Sam’s hands smoothed a path up to wrap loosely around the back of Dean’s neck. 

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Dean felt the need to repeat it again. Reece had been so close that day, the day he left Sam alone, the day he came back mad, the day he took Sam to the basement. Dean shuddered as Ellen and Bobby’s description of what they found in that subterranean hellhole pushed to the forefront of his mind. “I’m sorry.”

He lurched forward pressing chaste kisses to Sam’s lips, each one interspersed with his words of apology and Sam’s of forgiveness. The kisses lingered and the words came fewer and farther between until they were lost completely as lips and hands took over the communication. A shadow moved, a voyeur unknown by the boys, slinking away.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam adjusted his leg on the couch cushions trying to find a more comfortable position. His knee throbbed at being used after weeks of immobility and he rubbed the joint to relieve the ache. He lazily flicked through the channels finding nothing that allowed him to fully enjoy this rare autonomy over the TV. Dean saw it as his right as firstborn to control the remote and if Sam had to watch one more episode of _Baywatch_ he’d drown himself in the shower. _Let’s see Pamela Anderson save him there!_ But Dean wasn’t here now – off to deliver some chicken noodle soup to a sick friend of Missouri’s – and Sam held the buttoned key to the multi-media kingdom in his hand. He just needed to find something to watch. Finally he settled on documentary about great white sharks in Australia and dropped the remote on his stomach.

It was just getting good – the sharks were attacking a group of defenseless baby seals – when something bounced hard on the empty end of the couch near Sam’s feet. Wincing as his knee gave a sharp jolt of pain at the jostling, he scowled at Jo who was regarding him with a thin smile. 

“Sorry,” she chirped in a less than apologetic tone, “Where’s Dean?”

“He ran over to Mrs. Johanssen’s for Missouri.” He turned back to the program, answering her dismissively. He’d noticed the way she leered at Dean. The sharks were toying with the seals, grabbing their flippers in their razor sharp jaws and flinging them in the air. “He should be back in a few minutes.” 

“Unless he stops at a bar on the way home. Finds something curvier to keep him warm. I can imagine he gets bored coming back to his little wifey…oops!” She covered her mouth like a child that had told a secret and giggled. “I mean, his little Sammy every night.”

Sam pulled his gaze from the open-mouthed predator on the screen to the one on the couch. “What are you talking about?”

“I think you know. I’ve seen you, Sam. There’s no use in denying it.” He met her shrewd, knowing gaze then refocused on the documentary, determined to ignore her.

“So, Sammy,” she ran her finger behind the bend of the exposed toes of his broken leg, causing them to curl under reflexively, “tell me…does Dean always taste like cinnamon or was it just that once?”

Sam flinched, he couldn’t help it, her words more of a physical blow than any punch she could have thrown. Dean loved Big Red gum – that cinnamon burn on his tongue during the first couple of chews – and chewed it incessantly. Between Dean’s smacking and Sam’s admonishments that he’d rot his teeth out, their Dad had threatened to leave them on the side of the road more than once.  Just the smell of the stuff was enough to get Sam hard. 

Seeing Sam’s stricken face, Jo smiled. “I guess he does.”

“I need some air.” Sam sat up quickly, retrieved his crutches from the floor and hobbled out of the room. At the sound of the back door banging shut, Jo’s smile morphed into a smug smirk. _Jo 1, Sam 0._

 

* * *

 

Dean pushed open the front door and peeled his jacket off to hang on the hook in the entry. He’d been gone longer than originally planned. Mrs. Johanssen was a sweet old lady whose family had moved to Boston last year and craved any kind of interaction that didn’t involve her cat, Mr. Tibbles. Dean spent over an hour sitting on couch, petting Mr. Tibbles, while she regaled him with the misadventures of her youth. He only managed to break free by reminding her that Sam was waiting for him. She’d dropped in to visit with Missouri the day before yesterday and Sam instantly won her over with his unassuming charm.  Sighing, Dean kicked off his boots and wiggled his toes.

He skirted around Jo watching the newest version of _The Real World_ in the living room to where the light was on in the kitchen. Ellen and Missouri sat at the kitchen table playing cards, the radio tuned to an easy listening station out of Kansas City.

“You have a nice time at Mrs. Johanssen’s?” Missouri set down three sixes then added a two to the discard pile.

“Of course.” Dean snagged a handful of grapes from a bowl situated on the table between the two women, tossing one in his mouth.

“Been gone awhile. We were starting to worry she had you tied up somewhere.” Ellen was gracious enough to try to hide her smile behind her cards as she discarded.

“I think she would have tried. She’s pretty wily for a ninety year old. Fortunately, I was able to escape.” He winked, leaning back against the counter and popping another grape in his mouth.

“You used Sam as an excuse,” Missouri smiled too, laying down three aces and three eights in front of her and placing a suicidal Jack on the discard pile.

Dean ducked his head. “I might have mentioned he needed my help. Speaking of which, where is Sasquatch?”

“Last I saw he was watching TV in the living room,” Ellen answered, picking up the suicidal Jack and shifting the cards in her hand around.

“Here’s not there now. Maybe he went to bed.” Dean threw the rest of the grapes in his mouth and chewed around the too big bite as he made his way down the hall to the room he shared with Sam.

It was empty as was the bathroom. Poking his head in the living room, he decided to ask Jo. “You seen Sammy?”

“He was in here earlier, but I think he went out back for some air.”

“How long ago was that?” Dean was surprised that Sam had gone outside. He’d been wary of going past the doorways, but it could be that today’s outing had helped alleviate some of that trepidation.

“Um, a _Road Rules_ and half a _Real World_ ago.” There was that look that Dean thought might be her attempt at coy again.

“Was everything okay?” Something about that look coupled with Sam’s willingness to go beyond the door casing didn’t add up. Jo’s expression fell slightly before she could get her smile back in place.

“Yeah. Just said he needed some air.”

“Okay,” Dean’s voice was just as skeptical as the rest of him. A niggling worry was pecking away at the back of his mind. 

Passing through the kitchen, he paused at Ellen’s question.  “You find him?”

“Jo thinks he went outside.” He opened the back door and stepped into the early November chill. Sam wasn’t on the porch. The swing was vacant, moving in the slight breeze. Dean paced to the porch stairs, fingers of his left hand curling around the corner post, and peered across the moonlit backyard, only to find the same. No trace of Sam. Releasing his grip on the wooden post, his fingers dragged over the jagged surface. Squinting, he stepped closer and examined the source of the roughness. Unable to see properly in the current light, he opened the back door and snaked his hand inside to flip the switch for the porch light.

In the amber glow, Dean could make out gouges in the wood. His heart thudded to a stop as his mind realized the gouges were words, carved deep in the pine.

FINDERS KEEPERS

I WIN

 


	17. Chapter 17

_“They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.”_

_Dean lazily blinked up at the ceiling, eyes following the rapid revolutions of the overhead fan. He turned his head slowly and looked at the boy lying beside him. They were on their backs, springs of the worn out motel mattress poking random places along their spines, with Sam’s head pillowed on the round of Dean’s shoulder. Sweat gathered in the low lying areas of their bodies – the hollows at the base of their necks, the dips between their ab muscles, the grooved angles that ran from hip to groin – and blanketed the rest of them in a salty sheen.  “Yeah?” He prompted when Sam didn’t elaborate on his wayward thought._

_“I read that they think it’s just the brain’s reaction to what’s going to happen. You know, a way to lessen the blow that it’s all going to end, but what if…”_

_In the streetlight filtering in from outside, Dean could see Sam’s eyes were far away as his external musings turned internal. Curling the arm pinned beneath Sam’s shoulders, Dean combed his fingers through Sam’s soft locks as he waited for his little brother to work his thoughts out in his head. After a few minutes of patience, Dean nudged Sam’s head with his shoulder. “What if, what?”_

_Sam tugged his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes focused unseeingly upward. “What if it’s not your life passing before your eyes so much as it’s the judgment of your soul?”_

_Dean slid his arm out from beneath Sam and raised his torso up on his elbow. “What are you talking about, Sammy?”_

_“Well,” Sam deliberated, “most religions believe that at death there is a final judgment on whether you led a good life. What if when you die and your life flashes before your eyes it’s like a review of your sins so a final ruling can be made?”_

_“Like instant replay in football?” Dean placed a splayed hand over Sam’s slick abdomen, talk of death and judgment making him crave the contact._

_“Yeah.” Sam arched his back at the touch and pushed his body up into Dean’s palm, uncaring of the added heat on his already flushed skin._

_“So you think,” Dean leaned over and nuzzled Sam’s neck just beneath his jaw, “St. Peter or Anubis or whoever is kicked back in a La-Z-Boy drinking a Bud,” he ran his tongue up the sweaty column of skin and rotated the hand on Sam’s stomach, his pinky and ring finger dipping teasingly under the waistband of Sam’s boxers, “watching instant replays of people’s lives so they can decide who is worthy?”_

_“Dean.” The word started out as a whine and ended on a hitched breath as Dean sucked the fluttering pulse in Sam’s neck. “I’m being serious.” He managed through panting breaths._

_“I know, Sammy.” Satisfied with the reddening spot, unlikely to bruise but enough to pacify his current possessiveness, Dean moved to the junction of neck and shoulder and licked over_ that _spot, “It’s a good theory.” He rolled over and blanketed Sam’s body, their combined sweat easing the slide of skin against skin. “I just wanted to make sure I understood.” He bit down suddenly on the sensitive spot, raking the skin with his teeth as he sucked and reveling in the resultant body spasm and groan from the boy under him._

 _“So,_ ugh _, when we die…” Sam broke off on a moan at the sharp nip to his right nipple followed by the soothing sweep of tongue._

_Dean gently pressed his index finger to Sam’s lips, calloused pad fitting perfectly in the pronounced inverted arc of his cupid’s bow.  “No more talk of dying, Sam.” He breathed the words over the damp skin and watched as the dusky nub pebbled. Dean felt the hot sticky perspiration on his skin flash cold as the thought of Sam dead sent ice water through his veins. He focused his attention on the lithe body under his lips and tried to lose himself in the smell and taste of his brother._

_He trailed the tip of his nose over Sam’s abdomen, dropping kisses randomly on the tanned skin and lapping the Louisiana August moisture away. Slotting his body between the younger boy’s legs, Dean braced his weight on his elbows, bracketing Sam’s hips, and spread his palms wide over the bony notches of his hips. He dipped his tongue into Sam’s bellybutton, hands holding firm as Sam writhed beneath him._

_“Dean,” Sam gasped, fingers twining around the Goodwill sheets, the worn threads stretching with a rending sound as they threatened to rip under the pressure._

_Dean slid his left hand up the muscled body and over the toned shoulder to delve beneath the pillow. He trailed the cool plastic bottle he found there down the overheated flesh, thumb flicking the cap open along the way. Sam’s breathing sped up and his legs automatically spread further in a Pavlovian response to the sound._

_“D-dad?” Sam’s voice was low and husky, so different than his normal speaking voice that shivers of lust raced down Dean’s spine._

_“Won’t be back for hours.”_

_Dean moved further south, mouthing and sucking the sensitive spots on Sam’s pelvis causing the boy to jerk at the ticklish sensations. One pair of over-washed cotton followed another leaving them bare to each other’s exploratory hands. Dean wasted no time – one lube coated finger quickly became two then three as his mouth licked and sucked Sam’s weeping member to distract him from the burn of intrusion._

_“Dean! Dean!” Sam long fingers scrambled over Dean’s shoulders, failing to gain purchase on the sweat covered expanses. Giving in, he patted the muscled rounds impatiently. “Now,” he panted, “need you now.”_

_Dean kissed his way up Sam’s body, fingers continuing their prep as he claimed Sam’s lips again. He blindly reached under the pillow with his free hand, grasping the cool foil. Sam whined when he pulled free, but he shushed him with a chaste kiss to his lips. Foil crinkled, latex snapped and held breaths were released on moans._

They say when you die…

_Dean thrust hard, arms sliding up between Sam’s back and the mattress, hands curling over his shoulders. He shifted, changed the angle, and swallowed Sam’s enraptured cries.  Sam puffed Dean’s name over his spit slick lips._

_Muscles bulged, heat radiated, moans vibrated, hips pistoned, cries resounded, pleasure built. Life – strong, vibrant, potent. Vitality affirmed in each touch, taste, sight, smell and sound._

_“Sam,” Dean gasped, his orgasm hitting him fast and hard.  “Sam!”_ They say when you die… _“Sammy!”_

“Sammy!”

**FINDERS KEEPERS**

**I WIN**

_No, no, no, no, no_. 

A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck and over his palms, his stomach and knees shaking under the weight of his realization. A deep buzz sounded in Dean’s ears, blocking out the wind in the leaves, the gentle rattle of the chains on the porch swing, Neil Diamond on the kitchen radio and his own voice. Everything drowned out by an insectan hum, leaving him cocooned in his panicked mind.  He lurched forward, foot sliding from the top step and causing him to stumble down the next two. “Sam!”

He whirled around looking for some sign, some indication. This wasn’t happening. Sam couldn’t be gone again. “Sammy!” Motion caught his eye and he saw the back gate swinging loosely on its hinges. Moving toward it, he tripped over something hidden in the tall grass shadowed by the large oak tree. It tangled in his legs forcing him to his knees, one hand connecting with the crunchy autumn browned grass, the other with unforgiving plastic. Instinctively he wrapped his fingers around the foreign object and turned to see what had snared his legs. Dangling from the ankle of his right foot, where he’d stepped through the open area, was one of Sam’s crutches.

Kicking the wooden support free, Dean scrambled to his feet. “Sammy! Sam!” He staggered to the back gate, feet doing their best to work without direction from his overwrought brain. Through the swarm of bees in his head he heard the back door open and voices call his name, but they were too high, too feminine to be the one he sought so he ignored them. Next to the chainlink gate something stuck out above the box hedge planted along the house. Sam’s other crutch, tossed carelessly into the perimeter plants. Voices called him again, but he refused to acknowledge them. 

He slammed through the metal gate, the creak like a coffin lid being pried open, and dashed into the front yard. Nothing, but a peaceful suburban neighborhood, its innocuous houses with neatly cut yards and windows of warm amber light. Welcoming clapboard and brick that housed mothers kissing their children goodnight and couples cuddling on the couch, all completely oblivious of the anguish in their midst. 

He balled his fist, fingers of his right hand tightening over the forgotten object he’d picked up. Opening his hand, he found a syringe, plunger down, contents expelled. From the needled end, a drop of clear liquid fell to the ground at his feet. 

“Dean! Dean! What’s happened? Where’s Sam?”

Closing his eyes, he took a calming breath and curled the syringe in his fist. “I failed him.”

“Dean? What is it? Who’d you fail?” The lilting mid-western was concerned.

An equally worried soft Southern followed it with surety. “Sam.”

In the darkness behind Dean’s lids, images of Sam played like a slideshow, each flickering for a moment before it was replaced by a different one. Sam studying at the table, brow scrunched in concentration. Sam crouched and ready to pounce, eyes determined to win this time. Sam laughing in the passenger seat of the Impala, smile stretched wide across his face. Sam spread across discount sheets, face filled with so much love and trust that Dean didn’t feel worthy.

Dean nodded, eyes still clenched tight. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, punishing him for being so reckless with its holder, while his lungs heaved in an effort to quell the suffocating pressure in his chest. “Sam’s gone. Reece took him.” The words burned like acid, searing his throat and sitting foul on his tongue. He heard a gasp, one woman realizing what the other had already gleaned from his mind.

_They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes._

Standing shivering on Missouri’s front lawn, Dean knew _they_ were right. He was dying and all he could see was Sam.

 

 

* * *

 

Sam woke slowly, head full of cotton and body aching. He was lying on his side on a hard surface, his hip and shoulder protesting the unyielding material and the coldness it seeped through his clothing. Did he fall asleep on the floor? Groaning, he rolled onto his back, relieving the pressure on his throbbing joints. 

“You’re awake.” An amused voice chuckled above him, fingers combing through his hair.

“Dean?” Sam murmured. Dean’s voice sounded funny, like he had a cold or was trying to disguise it. Sam whimpered when the hand in his hair pulled the locks painfully.

“Hardly.” The word was spat at him, cold and hard, and Sam froze. He knew that voice. Prying his eyes open, he stared up at harsh sodium lights hanging from aged metal trusses. He scrunched his brows and blinked in confusion, trying to place where he was. A figure moved to hover over him, grey eyes considering him with their steely stare. “Welcome back, Samuel.”

_No, no, no, no, no._

Sam kicked his sneaker clad foot against the smooth concrete floor, but the tight grip on his hair prevented him from moving far. Lifting his hands to pry the fingers loose, Sam saw for the first time his arms were bound wrist to elbow. A lacework of rope, under grey industrial duct tape, criss-crossed his forearms securing them snugly together with a loop extending past his hands like a handle. Panic shot through his system. Not again! He couldn’t do this again.

 _How’d he even get here?_   Sam searched his mind for the last thing he remembered. Jo! She’d said something about knowing what Dean tasted like and Sam had to get out of there.  

At the back door he’d hesitated, fingers clutching the handles of his crutches tightly, and took a deep breath. Jo chuckled in chorus with a canned laughtrack from the TV and he let the sound of it to move his feet over the threshold. In the yard, he turned his face up to the star dotted night sky and picked out the constellations. When they were younger, Dean ‘borrowed’ a book on constellations from a library somewhere in Colorado and they’d spent the next year finding the connect-the-dot images in the night sky. Nights on end spent in companionable silence, staring into the inky blackness above. The neighbors next door were in their kitchen arguing, the sound of their disagreement loud through the open windows. He tried to tune them out and concentrate on the pinpoints of light overhead, but every once in a while a word or crash would break through. He winced when ‘whore’ was followed by shattering glass. 

Mr. Anderson must have found out about the yard boy. Sam had actually rolled his eyes at the cliché of it all when he’d looked out the bathroom window and saw Mrs. Anderson on her knees deep-throating Seth as he lay sprawled on the chaise lounge, the tanned boy’s lawnmower quietly forgotten by the shed. 

A harsh cackle preceded something that sounded suspiciously like ‘closet case’ and ‘neighbor boy’ and more glass breaking. So, Mrs. Anderson had noticed her husband checking Dean out just like Sam had. Last week, Sam had been admiring the view out his bedroom window of Dean’s ass in his tightest pair of jeans while his brother worked under the hood of Ellen’s Mustang. Mr. Anderson pulled in his driveway and almost ran into the closed garage door, trying to get a look as well.

Sam sighed as the screaming reached a fevered pitch and wondered idly after a few more breakables were sacrificed to their anger whether they’d have anything left to divide in the divorce. He focused back on the sky, easily picking out Andromeda and Phoenix. Just as he was beginning to look for Cassiopeia, a noise by the oak tree behind him caught his attention. 

He turned toward the sound, thinking that Jo had followed him outside to taunt him some more, and a hand clamped over his mouth while a strongly muscled forearm slid around his neck. He was tugged roughly back against his assailant, forcing him to lose his balance and drop the crutch from under his left arm. He was walked backward into the dark recesses under the tree, the threatening pressure on his throat an effective guide. 

Hope bubbled in his chest when the back door squeaked open. As much as he never wanted to see Jo again, the thought of her loud voice and big mouth had his eyes volleying to the door. Backlit by the light from the kitchen, Sam saw the outline of someone better than his teenaged tormentor. Missouri moved to the edge of the porch, hands on her hips, and her shrewd eyes surveyed the yard. Opening his mouth to bite the hand covering it, Sam stopped cold when the pressure constricting his airway lifted only to be replaced lightning fast by the edge of a knife.  

“You, then her, and I won’t even bat an eye.” The threat was growled low, voice not meant to carry, and the knife broke the thin skin causing a trickle of blood to run down the side of Sam’s throat.

Sam covered his teeth with his lips and closed his mouth slowly, giving his attacker no reason to mistake it as anything more.  Mrs. Anderson’s high pitched shriek was accompanied by what could only be the rest of her dishes hitting the ground and Missouri’s piercing gaze snapped to the blue house’s open window. Sam stood still and waited for the older woman to go back in the house, blood dripping down the front of his neck and sweat running down the back. Finally, Missouri rubbed her temples, turned and opened the door.

“Must just be the Andersons fighting again. Go ahead and deal the cards, Ellen.” She looked back outside once more then retreated into the house.

“Good boy,” the voice purred, “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. You even think about screaming…” A twitch of the knife finished the sentence, lengthening the knick already there and sending another rivulet of blood down the long column of skin.

“Wh – why?” Sam stuttered softly when the hand disappeared.

Something sharp pricked his arm and a warmth he’d hoped to never feel again spread from the injection site. His heart sped faster, pumping the drug through his system at an accelerated rate, and his limbs became heavy. The knife was gone and strong arms enveloped his chest. He thought to call out, but the idea was buried under the haze overtaking his mind. As his eyes drooped, he heard the growling voice whisper in his ear, “Because you’re mine.”

Sam’s breathing sped up, a mantra of _not again_ circled his brain in an endless loop as he looked around to see where he was. 

“Calm down, Samuel. You’re safe now. It was naughty of you to run away like that, but I see your _brother_ ,” he sneered the word, “has taken good care of you in my absence. “ Reece ran his free hand down over the splint on Sam’s hand and the cast on his leg, fingers brushing over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. “I warned you about leaving me, Samuel. I told you it wouldn’t be tolerated,” ghosting his fingers up from the fiberglass brace, he grasped Sam’s groin in a tight grip, “and now you must be punished.”

Sam whimpered at the crushing grip and a grateful whine escaped his lips when it was released. Reece grabbed the loop of rope extending over Sam’s hands and drug the boy from the floor. Placing weight on his casted leg, Sam collapsed as pain shot up the limb, the healing bone not ready for the added pressure. 

Reece jerked the rope, jarring Sam. “Get up!” 

Sam lay on the hard concrete, panting. 

“Fine,” Reece snarled, “you want to lie on the ground like a dog. I’ll treat you like one.” He tugged on the rope, the hemp coiled around Sam’s arms tightening and abrading the skin, and pulled the younger man across the floor.

Sam’s arms were yanked up, the muscles stretched far enough to make Sam gasp. He looked up to see Reece slide the loop of rope over a hook hanging down from a pulley welded to one of the metal trusses. Gears churned to life and the hook rose toward the ceiling lifting his body from the ground. The harsh fibers of the rope bit into his arms as he dangled from the hook, the toe of his sneaker barely touched the cement floor to relieve some of the weight from his arms and broken leg. Sam swallowed down cries, turning them into muffled whimpers. 

Reece circled him, smile predatory and smug. “Punishment first, Samuel, then we’ll play.” 

Sam saw the glint of light on metal right before the knife sliced through the air.

 

* * *

 

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Dean stood on the front lawn and reminded his lungs how to work. He started at the sound of a door slamming and saw Mr. Anderson storm down his front stairs, suitcase in tow. The door banged again and Mrs. Anderson stood on the porch, hand clasping the neck of her bathrobe to keep it closed. 

“Don’t you fucking walk away from me, Roger. Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you, you hateful bitch!” Mr. Anderson opened the trunk of his car and shoved his suitcase inside, slamming the trunk shut. Rounding to the driver side, he jerked the door open before turning back to his wife. “See if Seth can support your Prada habit. With what that little shit makes you’ll be lucky to wear Jaclyn Smith’s new line from K-Mart.”

“You bastard.” She picked up one of the pots that lined the railing and threw it, baked clay shattering on the pavement. “Why don’t you go next door and see if Dean will suck your shriveled up dick.” She pointed toward Missouri’s house for emphasis. Her eyes widened in horror at seeing the subject of her insult standing watching the interaction. Mr. Anderson’s face was a mixture of mortification and embarrassment.

Dean stood still, shock freezing him in place. Sam had sworn for the last week that Mr. Anderson was after Dean. So far the older neighbor had cornered him twice – once taking out the garbage and once checking the mail. Small talk that lingered long enough to be awkward. Dean wrote it off as coincidence and Sam’s mind needing something other than daytime TV to keep it occupied.

 _Guess Sammy was right_. 

That thought thawed him and he spun away from the inconsequential argument to go in the house. He could care less about the Andersons and their mutual love of young cock.  He had people he needed to talk to and Roger and Marise Anderson were not them.

Banging through the back door, he found Ellen standing by the stove with her phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. She jumped slightly at the screen door slamming against the casing, but continued with her conversation.

“Missing, Bobby, as in gone. Dean believes that Reece got him.” Ellen lips curled down into a frown. “Yes, Bobby. We’ve been watching him.” She sighed heavily, the stress lines around her eyes deepening. “I don’t _know_ how.” Her voice was layered thickly with regret and sadness. 

Dean turned his attention to the black lady seated at the kitchen table. Missouri’s head was in her hands, eyes closed and fingertips rubbing her temples in slow, steady circles. The remnants of the earlier game were still strewn across the surface and Dean could make out the King, Queen and Jack of hearts fanned out under the woman’s elbow. Missouri blinked her eyes open, the dark brown staring directly into Dean’s bottle green.

“I’m sorry.”

“How could you not know?” Dean’s voice was harsh, his anger edging the tone in broken glass. “You’re supposed to be a psychic, how could you miss someone sneaking into your own backyard and stealing Sam right out from under your nose?” He held out his hands out beseechingly, begging her for answers. When she didn’t offer anything more than a sympathetic glance, his eyes darkened to an acid green. “What, were the spirits not in a talkative mood or is it all just smoke and mirrors because I gotta’ tell you lady, I’m not impressed.”

“Bobby, I gotta’ go. Just hurry.” Ellen was already lowering the phone as she spoke the words, her mind taking in what Dean had just said. An electronic beep indicated the call was disconnected. 

“Dean, I’m so sorry. I’m not perfect. The Anderson’s have been fighting for hours, radiating so much anger and hate. When emotions run that high they’re all I can feel, like static that clouds everything else. Add that to Jo and Sam’s fight and I was overwhelmed.” Her dark eyes were wide, reflecting every emotion that was boiling Dean from the inside out – anger, regret, guilt.

 Dean’s shoulders slumped and he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, fingers tightening in his hair. Warm arms surrounded him and soft words “we’ll find him, we’ll find him” were cooed in his ears. He shrugged out of the embrace and took a deep breath. He didn’t have time for self-pity. Reece had Sam and Dean was going to get him back. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the first name in his contacts.

As the phone rang, Jo sauntered into the kitchen and took in the solemn people gathered there. She crossed to the sink, taking a glass from the drainer and filling it with water from the tap, questions in her eyes.

“Dean-o!” The voice was almost drowned out by the background noise, loud music mixed with a multitude of voices all talking at once and underlaid by glasses clinking. 

“Ash, I need a favor. Reece took Sam.” At those words, Jo paled and the hand holding the glass shook.

“What do you mean Reece took Sam? How? When?” The noise lowered in volume gradually until a soft snick dampened it completely. 

“Doesn’t matter. You were able to track Sam’s cell phone last time. If I give you his new number, can you do it again?”  Dean’s eyes never left the blonde girl at the sink, the water in her glass sloshing back and forth under the tremors coursing through her arms. Her face was too guilty for someone who’d played no part in Sam’s disappearance.

“Yeah, of course.” Ash’s normally affable voice was gone, the hippie pretense dropped and replaced by a no-nonsense air that Dean would never have believed the man possessed. “Like last time, it won’t be exact but should be within a few blocks.” 

Dean rattled off Sam’s new number, repeating it twice to ensure that Ash had it copied correctly. “Thanks, man. Call me when you get something.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Dean ended the call, his eyes never wavering from Jo as he sat the phone on the table. “What did you do?” He snarled the accusation at her and reveled in the flinch it caused. Things had seemed off earlier and now he knew she was hiding something.

“N-nothing,” she stammered under his penetrating gaze. 

“You’re lying.” At her head shake, he smiled ferally. “I know lies, Jo. I do it professionally. You did something, didn’t you? Something to Sam that made him go outside.” He stood and stalked over to the petite girl. “What did you do?” he repeated, menacingly.

“Dean!” Ellen’s tone was sharp with reprimand, but he refused to back down. 

“I-I,” Jo stuttered. “It – it was nothing. We were just talking. That’s all.”

Not averting his eyes, Dean tilted his head in Missouri’s direction. “You said that Jo and Sam argued earlier?” He didn’t wait for confirmation before he continued. “Do you know what they were fighting about?”

“No, not really. That was around the time the Andersons really starting mud-slinging. All I got was the word ‘cinnamon’, Sam hurting and him repeating ‘Big Red’.”

Realization hit and Dean saw red. “You little bitch.” He lunged forward, one hand coming up to encircle her throat. 

“Dean, let go of my daughter.” A gun cocked near his head, the barrel steady in his peripheral sight.

Slowly, he uncurled his fingers and backed away from the scared girl, hands held up in surrender. A flick of a thumb released the hammer and the gun lowered, index finger still on the trigger in case it was needed. “What is going on?” Ellen’s shrewd eyes flicked between Jo and Dean.

“The other night your daughter attacked me when I came back from the bar. Did you tell Sam that? Did you tell him that you kissed me? That I turned you away? Did you tell him what I said?” Dean’s eyes blazed and Jo closed hers against the hellfire she saw there.

“Joanna?” Ellen sounded blind-sided, she looked at Jo like she’d never seen her before. “Why would you do that?”

“I-I.” Tears streaked down Jo’s face and Dean curled his fist at his side. “I wanted Dean for myself. I th-thought…”

“You didn’t think. Now, Sam’s gone. Back in that monster’s hands. If anything happens to him, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“Dean, please,” Jo begged, stepping toward him, saltwater dripping from her jaw.

“You really don’t want to be here right now.”

Jo came up short at the calm rage in his tone. Slowly, she slunk from the room, leaving Dean with two shocked women and his own anger. He snatched his keys from the counter and headed for the front door. Grabbing his jacket, he heard Ellen and Missouri follow him.

“Where are you going? Your Dad and Bobby should be here in a few hours.” Ellen looked worried, her eyes darting up the stairs where Jo’s sobs could be heard.

“I can’t stay here and do nothing. I’m going to drive around and see if I can find anything.” He shoved his arms in the sleeves and flipped the collar down.

“I really think we should all stay put until they arrive.” Missouri put a hand on his arm, but he jerked away.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. Why don’t you call some of the neighbors and ask if they noticed any strange cars on the street today? Maybe someone saw something. If you find out anything, call me. I’ll have my cell.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sam was tired. The calf of his good leg ached from the strain of supporting his body on his tiptoes and trembled as the muscle quickly fatigued. Reece had used his knife to strip Sam of his clothing then a small saw to remove the structured fiberglass brace on his damaged leg. Since, the man had been content to spend the last however long leaning against the wall and staring at Sam’s naked form dangling like a worm on a hook. 

He’d taken stock of his cavernous prison, mind cataloguing the exits and possible weapons. Large letters were painted on the wall over what appeared to be an office, faded to a dull rust brown by the passage of time - Lawrence Metal Works. Reece had never taken him out of Lawrence. Sam’s heart lightened at the thought of his brother so close. He could see three exits – two doors, one at the front and the other at the rear with a large retractable bay door for deliveries. Two walls were lined with stacks of thick iron rebar, bundled together in groups of ten by thick metal bands. Metal racks spanned a third wall from floor to ceiling, each shelf containing layers of sheet metal. Short sections of rebar were welded to the rack support beams and large metal shears hung from them by their handles, secured to the racks by a chain. The gray concrete floor was swept clean and the tool boxes against the last wall were padlocked shut. Nothing that would make an effective weapon. 

Sam tried to rotate his toes to relieve some of the ache and cried out when the overtaxed calf knotted into a cramp. The leg buckled forcing the rope to take all of Sam’s weight.  His arms and chest stretched, the intercostal muscles pulling on his healing ribs and stealing his breath. He tried to stand on his broken leg, but screamed when the pain only transferred from his upper body to his lower. He lifted his leg and hung from his arms again, the pain moving with the change in position.

“You lasted longer than I thought you would,” Reece righted himself and paced toward Sam. He ran his hand over Sam’s bare skin, fingers digging into sore ribs. “So strong, Samuel. In both mind and body. A lesser man would have given in long before now. I know it hurts, angel, but what’s punishment without pain? We must learn from our mistakes and pain,” he kicked at Sam’s injured leg, “is the most effective teacher. Don’t worry, though, once you’d atoned for your sins, we’ll be able to play.” He ran his palm over Sam’s naked ass. “You remember how much I like to play don’t you, Samuel?”

Sam shifted to legs again, lasting less than a minute before the good one spasmed painfully and the bad one left him nauseous from the pain. He dangled from his arms, grey danced around the edges of his vision as his body fought desperately for air. At least in the dark there was peace, a respite from the pain.

 

* * *

 

Dean drove with no destination in mind other than away from Missouri’s house and the sympathetic glances, uselessness and barely contained bloodlust. Never in his life, until today, had he wanted to hurt a girl – a human girl – and he knew if he stayed in that house, it would only be a matter of time before he gave into the urge.

He pulled into the parking lot of an all-night liquor store but couldn’t muster the energy to go inside. No, he needed to be sharp for when they found Sam. He sat staring at the blinking neon sign for Del Sol Beer, the colors blurring across the hood of his car like spilled watercolors. His mind blanked out. _Blink…Yellow…Blink…Blue…Blink…Pink_

He jumped when his phone rang. Digging it from the inside pocket of his jacket, he glanced at the caller ID, surprised to see ASH in the display window. Running a hand down his face to clear the lingering weariness, he answered after taking quick note of the time.

“That was fast. I only called you two hours ago.”

“Your new provider’s firewall wasn’t as advanced as ArcMobile’s. I was able to access their database pretty easy, the hard part was triangulating Sam’s position.” 

Dean sat up in his seat, heart speeding at the implication of Ash’s words. “You know where he is?”

“Like I said before, it’s not exact, but I have him pinpointed to somewhere on Lincoln Street.”

“Lincoln Street? Here in Lawrence?” Dean repeated numbly. Reece hadn’t taken Sam out of Lawrence?

“Yeah. Sorry, I can’t narrow it down more than that.”

“No, no. That’s great. Ash, I owe you big time. Anything you want, it’s yours man. I swear.” Dean’s heart no longer sped, but thundered in his chest. Ash had just turned Dean’s needle in a haystack search into a needle in a handful of hay search. Dean dug in the glovebox for the map of Lawrence, he and Sam had picked up to find their way to Dr. Evans’ office

“Find your boy then we’ll talk about it. Oh, one more thing. While I was waiting for the triangulation to compute, I hacked back into the FBI database to see if anything new had been posted on Reece.”  Dean could hear keys clattering as Ash typed away on his laptop.

“And? Was there new information?”  He traced the line for Lincoln Street on the map, the road twisting through the industrial district.

“Yes and no. There wasn’t anything new on Reece himself, but links had been added that directed you to other FBI files.”

Dean looked up from the map and squinted out the window to see the name of the street he was currently on. “What files were those?”

“The Winchester three. Yours, your Daddy’s and a newly created file on Sam.” There was a thunk and then pouring.

Dean paused, map and street sign forgotten. “Why would the FBI have us linked to Reece?”

“No lo creo, buddy, but,” Ash took a long drink from the tumbler, Dean wasn’t going to like this next part, “they have Sam marked as a possible victim.”

“What?! How could they possibly know?” A couple of taps on the driver’s side window had Dean staring at something pressed against the glass to his left.

“No clue. The last person to access the file was,” Ash clicked on a minimized box.

“Agent Dustin Brown,” Dean finished for him, reading the name from the badge.

Ash looked at the screen. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Dean sighed, rolling the window down. “I’ll have to call you back.”

Outside the door stood a large man in a nicely tailored dark suit, behind him was a shorter man in a similar outfit. “Dean Winchester?”

“Maybe?” Dean fixed his face in a smug smirk. If this man had accessed his FBI files then he knew damn well who Dean was without asking. “You guys are really rocking the Blues Brothers look.”

“Mr. Winchester, my name is Agent Dustin Brown and this is my partner, Agent Chase Bullard. Do you mind stepping out of the vehicle? We’d like to talk to you about your brother?” Stepping back from the door to give Dean room to exit, Brown flipped his badge shut and tucked it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, Bullard mimicking the motion.

Dean leaned on the driver door, trying to keep his posture as casual as possible. “My brother? Not sure I know what you guys are talking about?” Dean smiled disarmingly, wiggling his back slightly to feel the hard metal of the gun tucked at the small of his back. 

“Mr. Winchester, we believe that your brother is the latest victim of a suspected serial rapist and murderer. We also have reason to believe that this man is currently searching for your brother.” Brown regarded Dean with a look that said he knew their beliefs were true.

“Guys, I think there has been a mistake.” A hum of _Lincoln Street_ and g _et Sammy_ moved over Dean’s skin like an electric current. He couldn’t afford to piss these guys off and give them a reason to keep him, but he also couldn’t afford to waste time when Sam needed him.

“Dean,” Brown sighed, his features softening as he used Dean’s name, “Reece has been spotted in the area. We think Sam’s in danger.”

“If I knew what you were talking about, which I’m not saying I do,” Dean glanced back through the window at the map on the seat. _LincolnStreetgetSammyLincolnStreetgetSammy,_ “how do you know he’s in the area and why do you think Sam’s in danger?”

“Dustin, you need to tell him.” Agent Bullard spoke for the first time and Dean’s head snapped forward.

“Tell me what?”

“Mr. Winchester, I…”

“What happened to Dean? Tell me what?” Dean pushed off the side of the car and folded his arms over his chest. Standing upright he was eye to eye with the agent and inches above his partner and he hoped this fact gained him some intimidation points.

“It’s a long story.”

“Then give me the abridged version.” Dean growled, tired of having to force people to tell him things.

Brown looked hesitant then relayed the entire story. His military history with Reece, the AD assigning him the case, Reece contacting him to find Sam, everything. At the end, he fell silent and awaited Dean’s judgment.

Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Look, fellas, Sam’s safe,” Dean choked slightly on the word, “I appreciate you wanting to help, but you have nothing to worry about.”

“Would it be possible for us to talk to him? We’d like to ask him a few questions.” Brown prodded gently.

An odd look crossed Dean’s face and he fought to school his features back into their neutral position. “Sorry, that’s not possible right now.”

Bullard’s blue eyes narrowed. “Dean, where’s Sam?”

“I told you, he’s safe. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.” Dean yanked the door open, pausing when a hand prevented him from closing it.

“Dean we can help. We want to help.” Brown looked so earnest, like he really meant it. 

“If you wanted to help, you should have arrested the bastard before he got his hands on my brother.” Dean slammed the door, barely giving Brown time to remove his fingers before they could be smashed. A flick of his wrist and the Impala roared to life, leaving the two agents in the dust of the parking lot.

 

* * *

 

 

John’s phone lit up a second before it started to ring. “Hello.”

“How far out are you?” Dean’s voice sounded hard and brittle all at the same time, a weird combination that shouldn’t be possible.

“Just passing the first exit for Lawrence,” he answered, reading a green highway sign as they passed. “We should be at Missouri’s in less than fifteen minutes.” 

“Change of plans. Ash has narrowed Sam’s location down to somewhere on Lincoln Street. Can you meet me there?” Dean turned left on Washington and watched the residential neighborhoods give way to more commercial buildings.

“Lincoln Street? Down in the warehouse district?” John changed lanes, turning on his blinker to get off at the next exit.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll be there in ten minutes.” John snapped his phone shut and pressed harder on the pedal.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam woke to the sound of metal clinking together softly. The clinking gave way to a running metallic rush and Sam felt his body fall. He landed with a jarring thud, his sore body screaming at the impact. He shook from head to toe, overworked muscles jittery and unsteady. His hands tingled as the tension on the ropes around his arms lessened and blood flow returned. The tingle morphed into a slow burn that built until he felt his hands were on fire. Sharp tendrils of pain zinged through his chest with each breath, his broken ribs making themselves known in a way they hadn’t for weeks. He rolled to his stomach, his right leg shifting and making him retch in pain.

A hand smoothed his bangs back from his head and he flinched away from the touch. “Ssshh, Samuel. Your punishment is all over. Now it’s time to play.”

Sam tucked his good leg beneath his body to try and crawl away, but was stopped by a heavy hand in the middle of his back, forcing him flat to the ground. The palm was a warm presence against his cold, bare skin and raised gooseflesh down his back. A heavy weight pressed him harder into the unforgiving concrete and warm breath ghosted over his ear. 

“Ah, ah, ah, Samuel. I’m not in the mood for tag. How about hide and seek?”  Reece punctuated his words by running a dry finger around Sam’s whole, teasing the newly healed tissue with a reminder of its torment.

“No!” Sam screamed as a vicious laugh sounded in his ears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean drove down Lincoln Street, the road lit sparingly by streetlights leaving most of the building fronts shadowed. He’d counted four warehouses on the dead end street, one hardly indistinguishable from the next except for the faded painted letters that labeled the business – a carpet mill, a lumber mill, a tile manufacturer, and a metal works shop. He slowed in front of the metal works building, the only one with lights on inside and surveyed the small adjacent parking lot. A sign sunk deep in the concrete warned that it was a private lot for the employees of Lawrence Metal Works and trespassers would be towed. A black Chevy Suburban was parked near the back of the lot, away from the portion illuminated by the security lights attached to the building. 

Dean stopped the Impala on the street and opened the creaky door as quietly as possible, staring up at the aging warehouse. The building consisted of corrugated metal on all four sides and the roof, a leftover of the industrial heyday this region had seen in the early 1970s. At one point the sides had been stark white, but years exposed to the elements had dimmed the color and created large orange-red rust spots. The only windows were set high up in the walls and the entrance was off to one end of the building close to the corner. Reaching into the back of his pants, he pulled his gun out and chambered the first round. He took one step toward the building when lights at the end of the street blinded him, a car turning the corner. 

The unmistakable growl of Bobby’s Pinto rumbled down the narrow street right before another familiar car made the same turn. Rolling his eyes, Dean reached in the Impala and flashed his lights to let them know where he was. John pulled Bobby’s car up next to Dean’s and Ellen positioned her Mustang on the other side, the three cars effectively blocking the road. If Reece wanted to get out, he’d have to go through 4 tons of Detroit steel to do it. Doors slammed and Dean found himself flanked by his fathers, both biological and honorary, and Ellen. 

“You sure this is the place?” John asked, a wary eye scanning the front.

The floodlight nearest the black SUV flickered, shining brighter before dimming. Dean watched the bulb fade back to its 60-watt luminescence. “Pretty sure.”

“God I hope you’re right.” Bobby checked his gun and nodded to John he was ready.

“Ellen, just so you know, I’m not sorry about Jo.” Dean kept his gaze at the high mounted windows were a muted light shone through.

“Just so you know, I am.” She answered, closing the cylinder on her pistol and nodding her readiness as well.

“Bobby, you and Ellen go in the back door.” John pointed toward the side alley. “Dean and I’ll take the front. Find a good angle and wait for my signal. And above all, don’t miss.” 

“And don’t hit Sam,” Dean added.

The group parted ways unsure of what they’d find inside. Everyone approached cautiously until Sam’s scream rent the night air.

 

* * *

 

Sam’s body moved on pure instinct. As the finger pushed through the outer layer of muscle, he reared back with his elbow, connecting with the side of Reece’s head.  Stunned, Reece fell to the side, allowing Sam a chance to scramble away. His exhausted body only made it a few feet before a strong hand gripped his ankle and forced him down again. Reece crouched over him, one foot on each side of his back, and fisted a hand in his hair, pulling his head back painfully. “You’re going to pay for that, you little whore.”

“Get the fuck off my brother!”

For a hysterical moment Sam thought he’d imagined Dean’s voice until Reece growled, “Dean.” He opened his eyes and looked around, relief flooding him at the sight of Dean and Dad standing by the warehouse door with their guns trained on the man above him.

“You heard him. Get away from my son.”

Reece laughed manically, tugging Sam up from the ground by his hair. When Sam’s legs threatened to buckle again, Reece’s knife came up to his throat and provided the proper motivation.

“Look, Samuel. We have guests. You didn’t tell me you were expecting company.” Movement at the back of the warehouse had him spinning to the side. “Tut, tut. No sneaking up from behind. I’d hate to startle and have my hand jerk.” He created a small cut in Sam’s skin just above the scab he’d made earlier, fresh blood cascading down over the dried flakes, causing Sam to whimper. 

“Give it up, Reece. You gotta’ know that there is no way you’re making it out of here alive.” Dean reasoned, finger steady on the trigger. He looked into Sam’s eyes, trying to reassure him with a look.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Dean. I will make it out of here and with Samuel to boot. See, I’m not ready to give him up yet,” Reece nuzzled into the hair at Sam’s temple. “He makes the sweetest sounds, but you already know that, don’t you Dean? Tell me, does your Daddy know what you do to your little brother in the dark?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Shut your mouth about me and Sam. You let him go and I promise to kill you quick.”

“Oh, you want me to stop talking about you and Samuel. Okay, how about I tell you about my time with Samuel. Hmmm? Would you like to hear about it, Dean? How I tied him down and shoved my dick into his warm, tight hole? I rode him like the bitch he is and he screamed so beautifully for me. Does he scream for you, Dean?”  He licked a path up Sam’s jaw stopping at the corner to bite down hard. Sam cried out, trying to twist his face away from the assault. “Does it make you hard like it does me?” 

“You sick fuck.” Dean made to step forward, but Reece dragged Sam back, his knife twitching against Sam’s throat.

“Careful, Dean. We wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise, now would we? You didn’t like that story? What about when I whipped him? His back was a work of art when my flogger was done with it.  Or how about when I carved my claim into his skin and fucked him with his own blood?” Reece bit down over the shiny pink scars of his initials. “Do you like those stories, Dean?”

Reece smirked at the horrified faces on the people surrounding him. “You know what the best part was? It wasn’t the cries or the screams or the whimpers. It wasn’t even fucking him raw and listening to him call out for you. It was seeing the moment he realized that you weren’t coming to save him.”

Dean’s body shook in impotent rage. They couldn’t take a shot on Reece without running the risk of Sam getting hurt. The bastard was holding all the cards and he knew it. Reece’s hand let go of its grip on Sam’s hair and smoothed a path down the younger man’s naked body. Dean watched as Reece nosed at Sam’s ear then whispered something that made Sam’s eyes go wide. Then all hell broke loose.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam stood on his good leg, body leaning heavily against Reece’s chest for support, and witnessed Dean and their Dad’s heartbreak at Reece’s taunting words. The things that Sam had tried to spare his family from hearing, laid bare for everyone to see. The knife at his throat was sharp and each breath created tiny knicks to the skin until one hurt bled into the next. He felt the pain as Reece bit him, first the jaw then the shoulder, but kept his focus on the four hunters. His eyes flit to each person begging them to take the shot, but he could see the reluctance in their stances. Finally, he gave up pleading and trained his eyes on Dean’s, drawing strength from the gaze.

Reece nuzzled his ear, nose tracing the whirls and contours. “Watch, Sam,” he whispered, “I’m going to show you true power. I’m going to kill Dean and no one will do a thing to stop me. They won’t risk losing you, too.”

The hand on his hip disappeared, the knife pressing harder to compensate for the loss of the hold. Sam saw a brief flash of metal, his mind registering gun before he actually saw the weapon. Sam grit his teeth and planted both legs on the floor and thrust his bound arms up to force Reece’s gun hand off target. The shot went wild, metal bouncing off metal as the bullet ricocheted off of the metal roof trusses. With a grunted cry, Sam pushed back with his legs, throwing his entire body into the man behind him. They stumbled backwards into one of the metal racks, hitting the beams with a bone crushing force that rattled the shears on their hooks. Pain erupted across Sam’s neck, warmth spreading like a waterfall down his chest, and he saw Reece’s knife clatter to the floor, the blade painted red. Spasms rocked the body behind him and he could hear was a harsh gurgling. Sam’s hit his knees, body giving up the fight to stand.

 _He couldn’t breathe!_

Sam closed his eyes trying to calm the panic and coax his breathing back into an in and out rhythm. As the adrenaline faded, pain erupted all over his body. Focusing his energy on breathing, he felt as if each lungful brought in water and not air. He could still hear gurgling along with an erratic hissing, like air leaking out of a tire. Footsteps came toward him and his eyes flew open, his only thought that Reece was back to finish him. A shape loomed over him and he tried to put his arms over his face in defense, but his limbs were sluggish to respond. 

“Sam,” said a male voice full of anguish, fear and worry. “Call 911!”

Amid his rapidly hazing thoughts, Sam recognized the voice. Despite his efforts he was hyperventilating but managed a weak “D--” between pants. 

“Oh God. Sam, oh God,” was his reply. He felt pressure at his throat and the drowning feeling intensified. The pain that had been a bonfire raged into a wildfire that made him cry out, the sound more of a rush of anguished air than actual sound. His vision blurred as unbidden tears obscured this eyes.

“I’m sorry.” The hissing had died down, but the gurgling was still loud, making it hard to hear his brother’s words. Sam wanted Dean to make it stop. He focused his eyes and saw Dean’s face hardened by worry and longed to comfort him. 

He mouthed soothing words, but couldn’t make his voice work. The breath wasn’t there and his lungs ached, desperate in their need for oxygen. His fingers flew to his throat, frantically scratching the restricting hand there. Tears leaked down his face and his numb lips moved silently. ”Can’t….breathe.”  

Dean cupped a hand to the side of his face. “Don’t worry. I’m here and I’ve got you. We’ll get you patched up good as new. Gotta’ take care of my little brother, right? It’s my job, right? Looking out for you.” 

“I…love…you.” The words were a hiss, but the look in Dean’s eyes said he understood.

_They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes._

Lying on the floor of a run-down warehouse, Sam knew _they_ were wrong. He was dying. He felt the life leave his limbs like an ebbing tide, replaced by a coldness that had him shivering. His heart was beating rabbit fast, not understanding its beats were numbered and it was rapidly using them up. Sam was dying and all he could see was his green-eyed angel.

 

* * *

 

The gun raised and fired, all four hunters ducking for cover as the bullet pinged off the metal trusses above. At Sam’s grunt of pain, Dean stood and saw Sam propel himself backward, forcing Reece into the metal rack behind them. Large scissors, dangling from rebar posts, swung wildly under the force of the impact. Reece’s eyes went wide in surprise and a bubble of blood burst between his lips, staining them in a macabre lipstick. The man had been impaled on one of the iron posts. The knife fell to the floor and bounced once, splattering blood on the cold concrete. 

_Blood?_

Dean’s eyes whipped back to Sam, tucking his gun into the back of his pants while his feet moved. His mind focused on the long strip of red across the front of Sam’s throat, red liquid flowing like a waterfall over his neck and chest. Dean slid the last few feet on his knees, catching his little brother as he collapsed on the floor. He cradled Sam’s head in his lap and swallowed when Sam clumsily brought his arms up to protect his face. Air bubbles percolated from the wound at his neck, popping on a hiss with each breath. A deep gurgling emanated from Sam’s mouth and blood tinged his lips.

 “Sam,” his voice came out a choked sob, moving Sam’s hands from his face. Lifting his head to the others, he called out. “Call 911!” He was vaguely aware of the warehouse door opening again, the heavy metal banging against the corrugated side, and the sound of stampeding footsteps and hurried voices.

“D--” He looked down at the dull hazel staring back at him.

“Oh God. Sam, oh God.” More bubbles appeared at Sam’s attempt to speak and Dean clamped his hand over the leak. Several sets of shiny shoes came into view and he spared a glance up to see Agent Brown and Bullard surrounded by other people in black jackets with FBI emblazoned on the back in thick, yellow letters.

“Get an ambulance down here now!” He heard the barked order followed by the squeak of rubber on cement.  

Sam cried out and tears seeped from the corners of his eyes. 

“I’m sorry.”  Dean blinked his own tears away. The gurgling was getting worse and Sam’s mouth moved to form words that wouldn’t come. 

Cold fingers scrambled over the hand covering the wound. Sam’s eyes were blown with panic as he fought against the hold Dean had on him. Lips he loved, bluing around the edges, mouthed… _can’t breathe_. 

Dean cupped a shaking hand to the side of his face. “Don’t worry. I’m here and I’ve got you. We’ll get you patched up good as new. Gotta’ take care of my little brother, right? It’s my job, right? Looking out for you.” 

“I…love…you.” There was no sound, just the movement of flesh, but Dean understood.

“I love you too, Sammy.” He pressed his lips to Sam’s and pulled back when he felt their iciness. Sam’s whole body shivered, a deep convulsing that rattled Dean as well, before his eyes slipped closed. “Sam?” No response. “Sammy? No, no, no, no. Sam?” He shook the boy in his arms.

Strong hands pulled him away and he fought them, elbows and fists flying without thought. Another set grabbed him and drug him a few feet from Sam’s supine body. He pulled his gun from his pants, but a hand encircled the barrel before he could aim.

“Dean, stop. You have to let the paramedics look at him.” His father’s red-rimmed eyes bored into him. Bobby’s wet blue and Ellen’s streaming hazel ones pleaded with him to understand.

Dean looked back over to Sam, surrounded by four men working frantically. Behind them, three additional men were lowering Reece to the ground. FBI agents were swarming around the scene like bees. 

“Is that occlusive dressing in place and secure?” The paramedics working on Sam were whispering, but to Dean it felt like they were yelling, the words echoing over the expanse. “Chris, how’s that bag compliance?” The guy at Sam’s head answered, “I’m losing it and he’s developing subcutaneous emphysema.” Gloved fingers pressed to the side of Sam’s neck. “Heart rate is dropping,” the man owning them looked at the monitor beside him, “and his BP is low. He’s decomping.”The men exchanged a look. “We have to get this kid out of here, Kyle.” One of the paramedics moved the stretcher closer and they loaded Sam’s limp body. Dean yanked away from his father’s hold and rushed to Sam’s side, hold firm on the rail of the stretcher.

“Sir, please step back. We have to go.” The paramedic, Johnson his badge read, commanded gently.

“He-he’s my brother. Is he…” Dean stammered, tears closing his throat on the rest of the sentence. Sam was so still and his normally tanned skin was gray.

“We’re going to do the best we can, sir, but we have to go right now.”

Warm hands pulled his shoulders and Ellen’s soothing voice was loud in his ear. “You have to let go, Dean. You have to let go of him.”

Dean swallowed and released the stretcher, slumping to the ground as it was wheeled out the door. How do you let go of the love of your life?

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

The Pinto rolled to a slow stop in front of the light blue house. The driver sat in the car, waiting for the dust cloud his tires had stirred up on the gravel driveway to settle. With a heavy sigh, Bobby pushed the rusty door open and stood, stretching his cramped body. The screen door to the house creaked and Bobby smiled.

“You’re late, Mr. Singer.” Ellen stood on the front porch, hand on her cockily tilted hip.

Bobby trudged up the stairs, stopping on the one below the formidable woman so they stood eye to eye. “Freaking ghoul. Damn thing nearly took Rufus’ head off.”

“He okay?” Her eyes softened in concern.

“Yeah, just a concussion. You know it’s hard to kill us old birds.”

“Thank God,” She smiled, arms slipping over his shoulders.

“This mean I’m forgiven?” He returned the smile, hands coming up to rest on her hips and draw her closer.

“I’ll think about it,” she said against his lips before she closed hers around them. Breaking the contact, she nudged his hat further up his head and leaned her forehead against his. “I was worried when you didn’t call.”

“I’m sorry.” His hands slipped around her back to hold her tightly. He knew that the memory of Bill going on a hunt only to never return still haunted Ellen.

“Don’t do it again.” 

He took her left hand in his and lifted it to kiss the ring there. “Promise.”

Voices floated on the breeze and Bobby peered around her to see a set of beige curtains billowing out the open window. “You sure Dean wants us here? It’s Sam’s birthday after all. He might have wanted some time alone.”

“He’s the one that asked for us to be here. He said after everything that’s happened he wanted the family around today.” She laced her fingers with his calloused ones and tugged him toward the door. “Come on. He’ll be glad you made it.”

Bobby allowed himself to be pulled into the house. After the Reece incident, Dean decided it was time to settle down. His heart wasn’t in the hunt anymore, even though he talked occasionally about accompanying Bobby or John on something close by, and he wanted someplace stable to recover from what had happened to Sam. It wasn’t much – a two-story ranch house set on an acre of land outside of Billings – but it was enough. John even had a room on the first floor that he used on his frequent visits. 

Ellen guided him into the living room where John and Missouri were already gathered. The room was simple, a deep brown leather couch – almost the same color as Dean’s ever present jacket – was paired with two recliners and a set of shaker style tables. Artfully displayed vintage horror movie posters dotted the walls and bookcases flanked the widescreen TV, filled with ancient tomes and recent bestsellers. Bobby crossed to the fireplace where pictures lined the thick oak mantle. Mary and John, arms around each other and so obviously in love. Mary, John and the boys in front of the house in Lawrence. John with Sam in his lap and Dean leaning over his shoulder sitting on the Impala. Dean and Sam on Sam’s sixteenth birthday, arms slung around each other’s waists, their joy radiating off the glossy paper. He lingered on the last one, taken in front of the fireplace in his study. His boys – as much as anyone could be without sharing blood. His heart ached for the pain they’d endured in their lives.

“Bobby?” Dean’s hand on his shoulder had him shaking free of the past’s pull. He turned and was swallowed in a strong embrace. “Thanks for coming, man.”

“Of course, I came ya idgit.” Bobby patted the side of Dean’s face affectionately. Dark smudges underscored the younger man’s glass green eyes and his skin was pale. “You doing okay, son?”

“Yeah,” Dean shook his head, “yeah,” he repeated when Bobby looked less than convinced, “I just picked up a few extra shifts at the garage this week. Mr. Abbott is talking about promoting me so I was trying to make a good impression.” 

“You sure?”

“Bobby, I’m positive.” Dean adjusted the picture Bobby had been examining, squaring it in line with the others, fingers tracing the filigree on the edge of the frame before ghosting over the image of Sam. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I left something important upstairs.” Dean left the room and ascended the stairs two at a time.

“Okay, spill,” Bobby questioned the room at large, moving to sit on the sofa next to Ellen, “how’s he doing really?”

“As well as can be expected,” John answered, looking at the stairs his son had just scaled, “he’s been fidgety about today for weeks.”

“He’ll be fine,” Missouri reassured, sitting in one of the recliners knitting a pair of blue baby booties, “he just needs our help to make it through today.”

“That reminds me,” Ellen jumped up, “I have a few things to finish in the kitchen. Care to give me a hand?” She held her hand out to Bobby who took the invitation without a second thought.

John chuckled still having a hard time seeing Bobby so…domesticated. If there was ever a woman to handle that crotchety old bastard it was Ellen. 

“She’s good for him.” Missouri smiled, flattening out the bootie she was working on to check her work.

“I know.” John looked over his shoulder at the sound of laughter from the kitchen, “I just never thought I’d see the day Bobby Singer was settled and…”

“Happy,” Missouri finished for him. “I never thought I’d be knitting a pair of booties for Jo, but here I am.”

“I noticed they were blue.” John nodded to the foot shaped article dangling from Missouri’s needles, “you know something Ellen and Bobby don’t.”

A mischievous glint shone in Missouri’s eyes. “I know a lot of things that Bobby and Ellen don’t.”

“Why you sly little minx. You know who the father is, don’t you?” John stopped for a moment, a look of horror on his face. In his head he was doing mental math, counting back Jo’s due date to when the boys were with her at Missouri’s. “Please God tell me it’s not a Winchester.” 

“No, no little Winchesters. Jo would never have been able to get between your boys.” Her nimble fingers twisted the needles and looped the yarn with practiced ease.

“So you do know who it is?” John leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.

“John,” Missouri admonished, pinning him with a reprimanding gaze, “that is Jo’s secret to tell. I will not betray her by revealing it to you.”

“It’s Garth, isn’t it?”

Missouri’s lips pinched tight, her cheeks twitching in the effort not to laugh. She lowered her eyes back to her work, concentrating on each knit and pearl. “Maybe.”

John’s laugh was too big to be contained and shook his entire frame. Wiping his eyes, he faced his old friend with a look of childish glee. “You gotta’ let me tell Bobby.”

 

* * *

 

Dean quietly shut the bedroom door and leaned back against the wood. He was happy his family was here to share the day, but he wasn’t lying when he told Bobby he was tired. He’d been putting in 60+ hours for the last few weeks and the extra time was starting to wear him down. Sighing he went to the bed and sat on the plush mattress, fists knuckling his tired eyes in the hopes of reviving them. On the nightstand was a large manila envelope, the FBI seal embossed in the upper left hand corner.

_Dean opened the door, halting completely at the sight of the two men on his porch. “What are you doing here?”_

_“Dean,” Agent Brown extended his hand, “good to see you again. You remember my partner Chase.” He nodded his head over his shoulder at the man behind him._

_Dean sneered at the proffered hand. “I remember, but that doesn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”_

_Pulling his hand back, Brown stammered, “We, uh, we wanted to come by in person to let you know that Reece’s case has been finalized.”_

_“I figured death made it pretty final, myself.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, his tone cold and unforgiving. He had to remind himself sometimes that the only reason the paramedics arrived as fast as they did was because Brown and his partner had followed Dean after their discussion in the liquor store parking lot. Apparently, they’d expected something to go down and had the local SWAT medics staged two blocks away as a precaution._

_“Well, yes, but yesterday the case was officially closed by the Bureau. We just thought you’d like to know.” Bullard stepped forward. He held out a manila envelope and waited for Dean to take it. “Enclosed is a copy of the Bureau findings in regards to Sam. I also put in some information on counseling in case you were interested.”_

_Dean curled his fingers around the stiff envelope. “How thoughtful,” he snarked. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m a busy man.” He moved to shut the door, but Brown’s hand shot out to keep it from closing._

_“I’m so sorry, Dean. About everything.”_

_Dean’s fingers on the door blanched as his grip tightened. He turned back to the agents, his eyes dark and dangerous. “I don’t give a good goddamn what you are. If you’d done your job and arrested the fucker to begin with then maybe Sam would…” Dean trailed off panting, the words he’d kept bottled up for the past six months gushing forth without censor. “I guess that doesn’t matter to you now. You got your man. Case closed, justice served.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering to a gravelly growl. “As far as I’m concerned you and your Bureau can take your justice and shove it straight up your asses.” With that, he slammed the door shut in the stunned men’s faces._

Dean turned as the bathroom door creaked and a rush of steam rolled out of the small space. A figure emerged, dressed in low hung jeans and a white button up shirt, hanging unfastened and untucked. A towel was draped over his head and strong hands rubbed the terrycloth back and forth. Pulling the cloth down, Sam looked at his brother and scrunched up his face in confusion. Tossing the towel back in the bathroom, he moved his hands fluidly mouthing the words they depicted.

_What wrong?_

“Nothing, Sammy. Everything’s fine.” He smiled, left hand twisting the ring on his right.

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him in obvious disbelief and Dean snorted. Who needed hands when you had an expressive face like Sam’s? He stood and crossed to his brother, hand coming up to cup the side of his neck.

“It’s nothing. _Really_. I was just thinking.” He gently traced the shiny pink scar that ran horizontally across Sam’s throat, marring the tanned expanse. He stared transfixed as the pad smoothed over the raised skin.

“D.” It was one of the few sounds that Sam could still make, no more than a gush of forced air and a flick of tongue on teeth. Dean raised his head to meet hazel eyes and smiled weakly.

 _I here._ He pointed at himself then held his palms to the ceiling and moved them in a circular motion. _I fine_. He pointed at himself again and spread his fingers wide, tapping his thumb to his chest twice.

“I know, Sammy, I know. It’s just…I almost lost you.” Dean leaned his forehead against Sam’s shoulder.

Sam wrapped his arms around his brother’s back and pressed kisses to Dean’s temple. Dean’s hands came up and fisted into the material of Sam’s shirt, clinging to the younger man like a lifeline.

_It had been three harrowing days since the showdown with Reece and Dean worried that if he blinked his eyes Sam would disappear. Three days of surgeries and tentative hope while Sam slept in a medically induced coma. Doctors came in and left, spouting medical terms that left Dean and John reeling. Sam had needed another operation on his leg to correct the damage done from using it before it was healed, setting back the recovery an additional month. Reece’s death blow had cut Sam’s trachea, thankfully missing all the major arteries and veins that ran parallel to it. The prognosis was good, but it came with a price. The knife injured the nerves to the vocal chords. Sam would live, but he would be mute. The doctors promised that after a year they would reevaluate Sam’s condition to see if surgical repair was an option._

_It nearly broke Dean to explain it all to Sam when he finally was brought out of the coma. Sam frowned in thought, fingers moving to the large white patch of gauze on his neck. After a few minutes, he pointed at his computer and motioned for Dean to give it to him. He opened a blank Word document and typed out with unerring precision._

Better silent than dead. We’ll work something out for hunts. Don’t worry.

_Dean shook his head before Sam finished tapping out the sentence. He’d had three days to think about things and he’d come to some important decisions. “No more hunts, Sam. You and me, we’re done.”_

But what about

_“But nothing.” He placed his hands over Sam’s to still them. “You almost died. I can’t lose you.” Dean smoothed Sam’s bangs back from his forehead and dragged the back of his knuckles down Sam’s cheek._

_Sam looked intently at his brother. He nodded, hand taking Dean’s from his face and squeezing gently._

Okay.

That night, Sam pulled up a website on American Sign Language and started studying the video teacher showing the correct way to sign each word. Later, after Sam’s pain medicine had lulled him to sleep, Dean started studying too.

Dean kissed Sam’s neck, rubbing his nose along the ticklish spot that made Sam squirm. Sam pulled back, hands sliding free. He stepped back and his eloquent fingers expounded on the excited look on his face, lips moving to form the words.

_You say something about gift before_

“Yes, Sam. I have a present for you, but you have to wait. I have a surprise first.” Dean chuckled at Sam’s pout, his bottom lip curled over and sticking out comically. He kissed the protruding flesh and patted Sam on the ass. “Finish getting dressed and I’ll let you see your surprise.” He’d successfully kept Sam occupied upstairs all morning while Ellen, John and Missouri set up for Sam’s party. He’d convinced his brother that their friends and family wouldn’t be able to make it this year.

Grinning, Sam sashayed his way to the dresser, making a show of swinging his hips suggestively.

“None of that, Sammy. There’s no use trying to seduce me. Get dressed.” Dean dropped onto the bed and watched as his brother stood in front of the mirror to button up his shirt. Two pictures on top of the dresser, one of them during Spring Break at the pier in Daytona and the other outside the MGM Grand, shook when Sam accidentally bumped the furniture leaning close to check his hair. 

Turning around, Sam beamed at Dean and held his hands out to his side.

“You’re gorgeous.” Dean rolled his eyes and held out his hand. “You finally ready?”

Nodding, Sam took Dean’s hand and let his brother lead him from their bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Dean closed the bedroom door, thumbing the lock in place. “You have a good time today?” Everything had gone off without a hitch and Sam’s joy had been palpable all day. Sam’s face shone with dimpled smiles and happy eyes. 

Sam nodded, sighing contentedly as he sank into the mattress. A large yawn erupted from deep within, splitting his mouth wide and cracking his jaw.

“You’re not too tired are you?” Dean leered at him, eyes raking over the younger man’s form.

 _Never_. Sam winked.

Dean took his time and stripped Sam slowly, worshiping each newly revealed patch of skin with lips and tongue. He lavished attention to the shiny scar, licking and kissing the imperfectly perfect flesh. He teased and prepped the body beneath him until Sam’s panted gasps and stuttered “D”s filled the room. They came together and Dean thrust deep and slow, content to draw out the moment and prolong the pleasure. Lips met lazily, soft, sensuous kisses interspersed with longer, deeper ones. When Sam tossed his head back, features contorted in a look of ecstasy, Dean sped up. Long, nimble fingers dug into the muscles of his back and he shifted slightly to change the angle. Sam jolted like he’d been electrocuted and Dean rose up on one arm to curl a hand around Sam’s weeping member.  Hand and body working in conjunction, Dean pulled Sam over the abyss and followed him down.

Falling in a graceless, sated heap, Dean reached over the side for his discarded shirt and wiped them clean. He rolled to his side and gathered Sam to his chest, nose slotting into the soft curls at the nape of Sam’s neck. His fingers traced the delicate black lines inked into the skin of Sam’s shoulder, covering the scar left by Reece. It was the same design he’d created for Dean, a twin to the one on his brother’s shoulder – Dean’s claim overwriting Reece’s forced one. 

Dean suddenly remembered he’d never given Sam his present. Rolling away from his brother’s warm body, he slid open the nightstand drawer and pulled out a small box. Leaning up on his elbow, he placed the box on the mattress in front of Sam. Picking up the box, Sam shifted to his back and shot his brother a confused look.

Dean shrugged, “Happy Birthday.” 

Sam’s lips twitched into a smile and he kissed Dean lightly on the lips. Lifting the lid, Sam’s eyes went wide and he looked at Dean in disbelief.

“Bobby found it the day he and Ellen went to Reece’s cabin. The jeweler was able to solder it back together again.”

Sam blinked his wet eyes, index finger running over the silver band nestled in the velvet box. 

“You like it, Sammy? If you don’t I could always go out and get you something else. Maybe you’d like a…”

Sam’s lips smashed against his to quiet the rambling words. Pulling back, he pressed the box into Dean’s hand, holding his right one out. When Dean didn’t immediately catch on, Sam wiggled his ring finger with an expectant look. 

A loving smile curved Dean’s lips upward and he slid the band back where it belonged. Laying on his back, Dean tugged his brother until Sam’s head was pillowed on his chest. He curled his hand over Sam’s, thumb smoothing over the metal band, and kissed Sam on the forehead.

“I love you, Sammy.”

Lips brushed against his chest, pressing the soundless declaration into the skin over his heart. 

_I love you._

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Teacher's Pet...Literally](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295767) by [darkly_poetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkly_poetic/pseuds/darkly_poetic)
  * [Always His and Never Yours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295800) by [darkly_poetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkly_poetic/pseuds/darkly_poetic)




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